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■ li usHiET) Mvrx JsaAisaTr 5e ©©id s?
POEMS OF SSI AN.
TRANSLATED BV
JAMES 3IACPHERSfli\, Esq.
TO WHITH ARE VREFISED,
A N> « >.^ -•«*' OISCOIIKSF, AND Dl.SSEUTA'l'lONS ON THM
^HA AND FOKMS OK OSSIAN
N E W V () R K •
p [I B L T s ff R D n Y i: I) \v A i; n k earn y,
'272 PIAHI f'IKFKT.
F^';
:A^
\v^
€ift ffom
ff9if\H B&. Florence W. Conger
Juiy 12 1932
0NTENTf5.
Pag..
A Preliminavy Discourse , 5
Preface 38
4 Dissertation concerning the Mra. of Ossian 44
A. Dissertation concerning the Poems of Ossian 57
Dr. Blair's Critical Dissertation on the Poems of Ossian 88
('ath-loda, in three Duans 189
Oomaia. 20S
Carric-thura 209
Carthon 221!
Oina-morul 235
Colna-dona 239
Oithuna 243
Ooma 249
Calthon and Cohnal . 254
The War of Caros 261
C.uhUn of Clutha 269
iSuuinaila of L-umoR 275
The War of Inis-thona 280
The Songs of Selma 285
Fingal, in six Boolcs 293
Lathnion 358
Dar-thula 369
The Death of CuthuUin 383
The Battle of Lora 391
Temora, in eight Books 399
Conlath and Cuthona 479
Ucrrii^hon 483
PRELIMINARY DISCOURSB.
As Swift has, with some reason, affirmed that all
sublunary happiness consists in being well deceived^ it
may possibly be the creed of many, that it had been
wise, if after Dr. Blair's ingenious and elegant disserta-
tion 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, th^it
numbers who listened with delight to " the voice of
Cona," would have been hap/>y, if, seeing their own
good, they had been content with these poems accom-
panied by Dr. Blair's judgment, and sought to know no
more. There are men, however, whose ardent love
of truth rises, oh all occasions, paramount to every
other consideration ; and though the first step in search
of it shouM dissolve the charm, and turn a fruitful
Eien 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 " The
Potms of Ossian" as well-informed as the hour would
allow, we have here thought it proper to insert some
account of a renewal of the controversy relating to
the genuineness of this rich treasure of poetical excel-
lence.
6 A rKKLIlMINAilY DlbCOUKSE.
Nearly half a century has elapsed since the publica-
tion of the poems ascribed by Mr. Macphcrson to
Ossian, which poems he then professed to have col-
lected in the original Gaelic, during a tour through the
Western Highlands and iriles ; but a doubt of their
authenticity nevertheless obtaiiied, and, from their first
appearance to this day, has continued in various de-
grees to agitate the literary world. In the present
year, " A Report,"* springing from an inquiry insli--
tutcd for the purpose of leaving, with regard to this
matter, "no hinge or loop to hang a doubt on," has
been laid before the public. As the committee, in this
investigation, followed, in a great measure, tliat line of
conduct chalked out by David Hume to Dr. Blair, wc
.shall, previously to stating their precise mode of pro-
cecding, make several large and interesting extracts
from the historian's two letters on this subject.
" I live in a place," he writes, " where 1 have the
pleasure of frequently hearing justice done to your
dissertation, but never heard it mentioned in a com-
})any, where some one person or other did not express
his doubts with regard to the authenticity of the poems
which are its subject; ai\d I often hear them totally
rejected with disdain and indignation, as a palpable and
most impudent forgery. This opinion has, indeed,
become very prevalent among the men of letters in
London ; and I can foresee, that in a few years, tho
poems, if they continue to stand on their piGsent fool-
ing, will be thrown aside, and will fall into final obliv-
ion.
* "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
committee, by Henry Mackenzie, Esq., its convener, or chairman
With a copious appendix, containing some of the principal docu
nents on which the report is founded. Edinburgh, 1805." 8 vo
up 343.
A rRELIMINARY DISCOURSE. 7
" The absurd pride and caprice of Macpherson him-
self, who scorns, as he pretends, to satisfy anybody
that doubts his veracity, has tended much to confirm
this general skepticism ; and I must own, for my part,
that though I have h.ad many particular reasons to be-
lieve these poems genuine, more than it is possible for
any Englishman of letters to have, yet I am not entirely
^^■ithout my scruples on that head. Youtliink, that the
internal proofs in favor of the poems are veiy convin-
cing ; so they are ; but there are also internal reasons
against them, particularly from the manners, notwith-
standing all the art with which you have endeavored to
throw a vernish* on that circumstance ; and the preser-
vation of such long and such connected poems, by oral
tradition alone, during a course of fourteen centuries,
is so much out of the ordinary course of human affairs,
that it requires the strongest reasons to make us be-
lieve it. My present purpose, therefore, is to apply to
you in the name of all the men of letters of this, and, I
may say, of all other countries, to establish this capital
point, and to give us proofs that these poems are, I do
not say, so ancient as the age of Severus, but that they
were not forged within these five years by James Mac-
pherson. These proofs must not be arguments, but
testimonies ; people's cars are fortified against the
former ; the latter may yet find their way, before the
poems are consigned to total oblivion. Now the testi-
monies may, in my opinion, be of two kinds. Mac-
pherson pretends there is an ancient manuscript of p;art
of Fingal in the family, I think, of Clanronald. Get
Ihat fact ascertained by more than one person of credit ;
let these persons be acquainted with the Gaelic; \et
them compare the original and the translation ; and let
them testify the fidelity of the latter.
♦ So in MS.
8 A rut LIMJ.NAKV IltiCUUllbE.
" 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 aro
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 pari
of the country, where the names of Ossian and Fingal,
and Oscar and Gaul, are mentioned in every stanza.
The only doubt is, whether these poems have any far-
ther resemblance to the poems published by Macpher-
son. I was told by Bourke,* a very ingenious Irish
gentleman, the author of a tract on the sublime and
beautiful, tliat on the first publication of Macpherson's
book, all the Irish cried out, ' We know all those
poems. We have always heard them from our infancy.'
/3ut when he asked more particular questions, he coulci
never learn that any one ever heard or could repeat the
original of any one paragraph of the pretended transla-
tion. This generality, then, must be carefully guarded
against, as being of no authority.
" Your connections among your brethren of the
clergy may be of great use to you. You may easily
learn the names of all ministers of that country who
understand the language of it. You may write to
'.hem, expressing the doubts that liave arisen, and de-
airing them to send for such of the bards as remain,
and make them rehearse their ancient poems. Lei
the clergymen then have the translation in their hands,
and let them write back to you, and inform you, that
they heard such a one, (naming him,) living in such a
place, rehearse the original of such a passage, from
» So in MS
A PRELDIINARV DISCOURSE. 9
such a page to such a page of the English translation,
which appeared exact and faithful. If you give to the
public a sufficient number of such testimonials, you
may prevail. But I venture to foretel to you, that
nothing less will serve the purpose ; nothing less wil
so much as command the attention of the public.
" Becket tells me, ihat he is to give us a new editioi
of your dissertation, accompanied with some remarks
on Temora. Here is a favorable opportunity for you
to execute this purpose. You have a just and laudable
zeal for the credit of these poems. They are, if genu-
ine, one of the greatest curiosities, in all respects, that
ever was discovered in the commonwealth of letters ;
and the child is, in a manner, become yours by adop-
tion, as Macpherson has totally abandoned all care of
it. These motives call upon you to exert yourself:
and I think it were suitable to your candor, and most
satisfactoi-y 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 contraiy arguments suppressed,
where such an entire communication is made to us.
Becket joins me heartily in that application ; and he
owns to me. that th- Delievers 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, Leicestet Fields,
]dth Sept., 1763.
The second letter contains less matter of impor-
tance ; but what there is that is relevant deserves not
to be omitted.
" I am very glad," he writes on the 6th of October,
10 A Pm:LlT\riNARY DISCOT'RSK.
1763, " you liavc undertaken the task which 1 uscher3on had translated ; that they had heard many of
Shem repeated in their youth : that listening to them
was the favorite amusement of Highlanders, in the
liours of leisure and idleness ; but that since the rebel-
lion in 1745, the manners of the people had undergone
a change so unfavorable to the recitation of these
poems, that it v/as 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 I\Ir. Macpherson : that
his translation seemed, to such as had read it, a very
able one ; but that it did not by any means come up to
tiie force or energy of the original to such as had read
it ; for his book was by no means universally possessed,
or read among the Highlanders, even accustomed to
reading, who conceived that his translation could add
but little to their amusement, and not at all to their
conviction, in a matter .which they had never doubted.
A fcw of the committee's correspondents sent them
such ancient poems as tliey possessed in writing, from
having formerly taken them down from the oral reci-
tation of the old Highlanders who were in use to re-
cite them, or as they now took them down from some
person, whom a very advanced period of life, or a par-
ticular connection with some reciter of the old school,
16 A PRKLIMINARY OIJfCOl'RSE.
enabled still to retain them in his inemo'v ;* huf t'l-.se,
the committee's correspondents said. \vcrciz;(T;j:rall\ !'• s
perfect, and more corrupted, than 'h-- um, ns- --wwch
they had formerly heard, or which niigh! hn^c ineu
obtained at an earlier period. f
Several collections came to ihem i>y [ticscnis, as
wt^ll as by purchase, and in these are !UiiiHi\)i!s ••. shreds
and patches,'" that bear a strong rcsmibliioce to the
materials of which " Ossian's Poems'' arc composed.
These are of various degrees of consofiiicnce. One
of them we are the more tempted to ;j:ivc. for the same
reason as the committee was tlie more solicitous to
procure it, because it was one v, nich some of the
opposers of the authenticity of Ossian had quoted as
evidently spurious, betraying the most convincing marks
of its being a close imitation of the address to the sun
in Milton.
"I got," says Mr. Mac Diarmid,:|: "the copy of
these poems" (Ossian's address to the sun in Carthon,
and a similar address in 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."
* The Rev. Mr. Smith, who has published translations of many
Gaelic poems, accompanied by the originals, assures us, that
"near himself, in the parish ofKlimnver, 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 niany of them Os-
i-ian's. Two otners, called M'Dugal and M'Neil, could entertain
their hearers in the same manner for a whole winter season. It
was from persons of this description, undoubtedly, that Macpherson
recovered a great part of the works of Ossian. A. Macuonald'i
Prelim. Disc. p. 76.
t See Report.
jDate, ApriI9. 1801,p. 71.
A PRELIM1TAR\ DISCOURSE. 17
MTfiUAL TRANSLATION OF OSSL.n's ADDRESS TO THS
SUN IN CARTHON.
" ! tliou who travellest above, round as the full-orbed
nard shield of the mighty ! whence is thy brightness
without frown, thy light that is lastin,^, O sun ? Thou
comest forth in thy powerful beauty, a^id the stars hide
their course ; the moon, without strength, goes from
the sky, hiding herself under a wave in the west.
Thou art in thy journey alone ; who is so bold as to
come nigh thee 1 The oak falleth from the high
mountain ; the rock and the precipice fall under old
age ; the ocean ebbeth and floweth, the moon is lost
above in the sky ; but thou alone forever in victoiy,
in the rejoicing of thy own light. When the storm
darkcneth 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 trem-
blest 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 va.in and feeble light of the moon, while she looks
through a cloud on the field, and her gray mist on the
sides of the rocks ; a blast from the north on the
plain, a traveller in distress, and he slow."
The comparison may be made, by turning to the
end of Mr. Macpher son's version of " Carthon," be-
ginning " O thou that rollest above. '^^
But it must not be concealed, that after all the exer-
2*
18 A rREM?.lIx^;ARV DISCOURSE.
tioas of th(3 committee, it has not been abl-e to obtain
uiiy one poem, the same in title and tenor with the
|)oei«s pubHshcd by him. We therefore feel that the
reaxlcr of " O-ssian's Poems," until grounds more rela.
tive be j^roduc^d, will often, in the perusal of Mr. Mac
phcn-son's translations, be induced, with some show of
jusiire, t-o exclaim with him, when he looked over the
manusi-r-ipt copies found in Clanronald's family, "D — n
the scoimdrd, it is he liimself that now speaks, and
710 1 Ossian '"*
To this s&nfeimcnt the committee has the candor to
incline, us it will appear by their summing up. After
producing or pointing to a large body of mixed evi-
dence, and taking for granted the existence, at some
peri(Kl, of an abundance of Ossianic poetry, it comes
k) the question, " How far tliat collection of such
poetry, published by Mr. James Macphcrson, is genu-
ine ?'' To ansv.^er this query decisively, is^ as they
conf(.^ss, difficult. This, however, is the ingenious
manner in which they treat it.
" The committee is possessed of no documents, to
show how much of his collection Mr. Macpherson
obtained in the form in which he has given it to the
world. The poems and fragments of poems which the
committee has been able to procvu-e, contain, as will
appear from the article in the Appendix (No. 15)
already mentioned, often the substance, and sometimes
almost the literal expression (the ifpsissima verba) of
passages given by Mr. Macpherson, in the poema of
which he has published the translations. But the com-
mittee has not been able to obtain any one poem the
same in title or tenor with the poems published by him.
It is inclined to believe, that he was in use to supply
chasms, and to give connection, by inserting passages
♦ Report, p. 44.
A PRELIMINARY DISCOURSE. 19
which lie -did not find, and to add what he conceived
to be dignity and deUcacy to the original composition,
Dy striking out passages, by softening incidents, by re-
fjjiing 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 belov/ the
standard of good poetry. To what degree, however,
he exercised these liberties, it is impossible for the
committee to determine. The advantages he possess-
ed, which the committee began its inquiries too late to
enjoy, of collecting from the oral recitation of a num-
ber of persons, now no more, a very great number of
the same poems on the same subjects, and then colla-
ting those different copies, or editions, if they may bo
so called, rejecting what was spurious or corrupted in
one copy, and adopting from another, something more
genuine and excellent in its place, afforded him an op-
portunity of putting together what might fairly enough
be called an original whole, of much more beauty, and
with much fewer blemishes, than the committee believe
it now possible for any person, or combination of per-
sons, to obtain." P. 152-3.
Some Scotch critics, who should not be ignorant of
the strongholds and fastnesses of the advocates for
the authenticity of these poems, appear so convinced
of their insufficienc}' , that they pronounce the question
put to rest forever. But we greatly distrust that any
literary question, possessing a single inch of debateable
ground to stand upon, will be suffered to enjoy much
rest in an age like the present. There are as many
minds as men, and of wranglers there is no end. Be-
hold another and " another yet," and in our imagina-
tion, he
" bears a glass,
Which shows us many more."
The first of these is Mr. Laing, who has rec-entiy
20 A fKKLIMINARy DISCOUR&E.
pul)lishcd tlic " Poeins of Ossian, &c., containing l^ie
Poetical Works of James Macpherson, Esq., in Prose
and Rhyme : with notes and illustrations. In 2 vols.
8 vo. Edinburgh, 1805." In these " notes and illus-
trations," we foresee, that Ossian is likely to share the
fate of Shakspeare : that is, ultimately to be loaded and
oppressed by heavy commentators, until his immortal
spirit groan beneath vast heaps of perishable matter.
The object of Mr. Laing's commentary, after having
elsewhere* endeavored to show that the poems arc
spurious, and of no historical authority, "is," says he,
" not merely to exhibit parallel passages, much less in-
stances of a fortuitous resemblance of ideas, but to
produce the precise originals from which the similes
and images are indisputably derived. "j" And these he
pretends to find in Holy Writ, and in the classical
poets, both of ancient and modern times. Mr. Laing,
however, is one of those detectors of plagiarisms, and
discoverers of coincidences, whose exquisite penetar-
tion and acuteness can find any thing anywhere. Dr.
Johnson, who was shut against conviction with respect
to Ossian, even when he affected to seek the truth in
the heart of the Hebrides, may yet be made uset'ul to
the Ossianites in canvassing the merits of this redoubted
stickler on the side of opposition. " Among the innu-
merable practices," says the Rambler,:}: " by which in-
terest or envy have taught those who live upon literary
fame to disturb each other at their airy banquets, one
of the most common is the charge of plagiarism.
When the excellence of a new composition can no
longer be contested, and malice is compelled to give
* In his Critical and ICstorical Dissertation on th« Antiquity at
Ossian's Poems,
t Preface, p. v
J No. 143.
A PRELIMINARY DISCOURSE. SI
way to the unanimity of applause, there is yet this one
expedient to be tried, by which the author may be de-
graded, though his work be reverenced ; and the ex-
cellence which we cannot obscm-e, may be set at such
a distance as not to overpower our fair^ter ktstre.
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 became us, aor 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 Caros, we meet with these words, "It is like
the field, when darkness covers the hills around, and
the shadow grows slowly on the plain of the sun," we
are to believe, according to Mr. Laing, that the idea
was stolen from Virgil's
Major esque cadunt altis de montibus umbra.
For see, yon sunny hills the shade extend. — Dryden.
As well might we credit that no oik ever beheld a
natural phenomenon except the Mantuan bard.* The
hook 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 descrip-
tions, which are definitions of a more lax and fancifu)
kind, must always have, in some degree, that resem-
blance to each other, which they all have to their ob-
ject."
* This is not so good, because not so amusing In its absurdity, as
an attempt formerly made to prove the JEne'id E arse, from " Arraa
virumque cano," and " Airm's am fear canam," having the eame
meaning, and nearly the same sound.
2'^ A PI7EL1MINATIY niSrOTTRSK.
It is true, however, if we wore fully able to admit
that Macphcrson could not have obtained these ideas
where he professes to have found them, Mr. Laing hfis
produced many instances of such remarkable coincv
dcnce as would make it probable that Macphcrson fns
quontly translates, not the Gaelic, but the poetical lore
of antiquity. Still this is a battery that can only be
brought to play on particular points ; and then with great
uncertainty. The mode of attack used by Mr. Knight,
could it have been carried on to any extent, would
have proved much more effectual. We shall give the
instance alluded to. In his " Analytical Enquiry into
the Principles of Taste, 1805," he makes these re-
marks :
" 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
attributed to them. In the early stages of society, men
are as acute and accurate in practical observation as
they are limited and deficient in speculative science ;
and in proportion as they are ready to give up thcnr
imaginations to delusion, they are jealously tenacious
of the evidence of their senses. James Macphcrson,
in the person of his blind bard, could say, with applause
In the eighteenth century, • Thus have I seen in Cona ;
but Cona I behold no more : thus have I seen two dark
hills removed from their place by the strength of the
mountain stream. They turn from side to side, and
A PRELnriNARY jniSCOURSE. 23
their tall oaks meet one another on high. Then they
(all togetlior with all their rocks and trees.'
•■'But had a blind bard, or any other bard, presumed
to utter such a rhapsody of bombast in 'the hall of
shells, amid the savage warriors to whom Ossian is
supposed to have sung, he would have needed all the
inlluence of royal birth, attributed to that fabulous per
ponagc, to restrain the audience from throwing their
shells at his head, and hooting him out of their com-
pany as an impudent liar. They must have been suf-
ficiently acquainted with the rivulets of Cona or Glen-
Cvje to know that he had seen nothing of the kind ; and
liave known enough of mountain torrents in general to
know that no such effects are ever produced by them,
and would, therefore, have indignantly rejected such a
barefaced attempt to impose on their credulity."
The best defence that can be set up in this case will,
perhaps, be to repeat, " It is he himself that now
speaks, and not Ossian."
:vlr. Laing had Gcarccly tlirown down the gauntlet,
when Mr. Archibald M'Donald* appeared
" Ready, aye, ready, f lor the field.
The opinion of the color of his opposition, whether
it be that of truth or error, will depend on the eye that
contemplates it. Those who delight to feast with Mr.
Laing on the Ihnbs of a mangled poet, will think the
latter unanswered ; while thoseij: who continue to in-
* " Some of Ossian's lesser Poems, rendered into verse, with a
pjeliminary Discourse, in answer to Mr. Laing's Critical and His-
torical Dissertation on the Antiquity of Ossian's Poems, 8 vo. p
2'-4. Liverpool, 1S<)5."
t Thirlestane's motto. See Scott's Lay of the Last Minstrel.
i A professor in the university of Edinburgh, the amiable and
It'arneu Dr. Gregory, is on th^ side of the believers in Ossian. His
judgment is a tower of strengiu See the preface, p. vi. to xii and
24 A PRKLIMINAKY DISCOURSE.
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 Os-
sian in MS. of an older date than the present century
(1700,) be procured and lodged in a public library, I
(Laing) shall return among the nrsi to om* 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-
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 arc
confessedly procured from oral tradition, yet scve.r-.ii
gentlemen of veracity attest to have seen, among
Macpherson's papers, several MSS. of a much older
date than Mr. Laing requires to be convinced. Though
not more credulous than my neighbors, I cannot resist
facts so well attested ; there are no stronger for be-
lieving the best-established human transactions.
" I 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." P. 193-4.
p. 146, of his Comparative View of the State and Faculties of Man
with those of the Animal World.
* Such as the silence of Ossian in respect to religion ; his omis-
sion of wolves and bears, &c. See also in the Literary Journal,
August, 1804, a powerful encounter of many of Mr. Lain^'s other
arguments in his Dissertation against the authenticity of these po-
ems. His ignorance of the Gaelic, and the consequent futility of
hia etymological remarks, are there ably exposed.
A PRELIMINARY DISCOURSE. 25
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
controversialist to step in and place the disputed wreath
on the brows of Hibernia. There is no doubt that
Ireland was, in ancient times, so much connected with
the adjacent coast of Scotland, that they might almost
be considered as one country, having a community of
manners and of language, as well as the closest politi-
cal connection. Their poetical language is nearly, or
rather altogether the same. These coinciding circum-
stances, therefore, independent of all other ground,
afford to ingenuity, in the present state of the question,
a sufficient basis for the erection of an hypothetical su-
perstructure of a very imposing nature.
In a small volume published at Dusseldorf in 1787,
by Edmond, Baron de Harold, an Irishman, of endless
titles,* we are presented with what are called, " Poems
of Ossian lately disco vered."f
'• 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 peo-
pie ; and do not pretend to ascertain what was the na-
tive country of Ossian. I honor and revere equally a
* " Colonel-commander of the regiment of Konigsfield, gentle-
man of the bedchamber of his most serene highness the Elector
Palatine, member of the German Society of Manheim, of the
Jloyal Antiquarian Society of London, and of the Academy of
Dusseldon."
t In some lines in these poems we find the lyre of Ossiart called
" the old Hibernian lyre." The idea is not new. See Burke's
Observation in Hume's first Letter to Dr. Blair. Also, the collec-
lions by Miss Brooke and Mr. Kennedy. Compare the story ot
Conloch with that of Carthon in Macpherson.
;^
26 A PRELIMINARY DISCOUKSE.
bard of his exalted talents, were he born in Ireland or
in Scotland. It is certain that the Scotch and Irish
were united at some early period. That they proceed
from the same origin is indisputable ; nay, I believe
that it is proved beyond any possibility of negating it,
that the Scotch derive their origin from the Irish.
This truth has been brought in question but of late
days ; and all ancient tradition, and the general con-
sent of the Scotch nation, and of their oldest historians,
agree to confirm the certitude of this assertion. If
any man still doubts of it, he will find, in Macgeoge-
han's History of Ireland, an entire conviction, estab-
lished by elaborate discussion, and most incontroverti-
ble proofs :" pp. V. vi.
We shall not stay to quarrel about " Sir Arch.y's
great grandmother,"* or to contend that Fingal, the
Irish giantjf did not one day go '^ over from Carrick-
*See Macklin's Love A-la-mode.
f'Selma is not at all known in Scotland. When I asked, and
particularly those who wme possessed of any poetry, songs, or
tales, who Fion was 1 (for he i^ not known by the name of f'inffal
by any ;) I was answered, that he was an Irishman, if a man ; Tor
they sometimes thought him a giant, and that he lived in Ireland,
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. Macpher.^on 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 ]\Iorveu 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 Ire-land
the scene of his battles, but a.s he must need make the hero of an
epic poem a great character, it was too great honor for any other
country but Scotland to have given birth to so considerable a per-
sonage. All the authentic histories of Ireland give a full account
of Fingal or Fion Mac Cunihal'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 Scotorum, froni which the list of the Scotch kings is
taken, and the pretended MSS. they so much boast of to be seen
in the Hebrides, there is not one syllable said of such a name as
Fingal." — An Enquiry into the Authenticity of the Poems of Os-
X PRELIMINARY DISCOURSE. 27
fergus, and people all Scotland with his own hands,"
and make thes(3 sons of the north " illegifhnate ;^' but
we may observe, that from the inclination of the
baron's opinion, added to the internal evidence of his
poems, there appears at least as much reason to believe
their author to have been a native of Ireland as of
Scotland. The success with which Macpherson's en-
deavors liad been rewarded, induced the baron to in-
quire 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, v/hich were very sublime, and par-
ticularly remarkable for their simplicity and elegance."
P. iv.
'' From these fragments," continues Baron de Har-
old, '' I have composed the following poems. They
arc all founded on ti-adition ; but the dress they now
appear in is mine. It will appear singular to some,
that Ossian, at times, especially in the songs of Com-
fort, seejiis rathe}' to be an Hibernian than a Scotchman,
and that some of these poems formally contradict pas-
sages of great importance in those handed to the pub-
lic by Mr. Macpherson. especially that very remarka-
ble one of Evir-allen, where the description of her
marriage with Ossian is essentially different in all its
parts from that given in former poems." P. v.
sian, by W. Shaw, A. M., F. S. A., author of the Gaelic Dictionary
and Grammar. London, 1781.
Mr. Shaw crowns his want of faith in Macpherson's Ossian witn
this piece of information. " A gentleman promised to ornament
a scalloped shell with silver, if I should bnag him one from the
Highlands, and to swear that it was the identical shell out of which
Fii'.gal used to drink."— A gentleman !
38 A PRELIMINARY DISCOURSE.
We refer the reader to the opening of the fourtli
book of Fingal, which treats of Ossian's courtship of
Evir-allen. The Evir-allen of Baron de Harold is in
these words :
EVIR-ALLEN:
A POEM.
Thou fairest of the maids of Morven, young beam
of streamy Lutlia, come to the lielp 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
soiAh away my wo. 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
liead. AVeak is that nervous arm, once the terror of
foes. Scarce can I grasp ray staff, the prop of my
tx-embling limbs.
Lead me to yonder craggy steep. The murmur ol
the falling streams ; the whistling winds rushing 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 Cona, bend from your gold-tinged clouds,
and join me in my song. A mighty blaze is kindled
in my soul. I hear a powerful voice. It says, " Seize
thy beam of glory, O bard ! for thou shalt soon depart.
Soon shall the light of song be faded. Soon thy tuneful
A rHELlMINARY DISCOURSE. 29
voice forgotten." — " Yes, I obey, O powerful voice,
for thou art pleasing to mine ear.''
O Evir-allen ! thou boast of Erin's maids, thy thoughts
come streaming on my soul. Hear, O Malvina ! a tale
of my youth, the actions of my former days.
Peace reigned over Morven's hills. The shell of
joy resounded in our halls. Round the blaze of the
oak sported in festive dance the maids of Morven.
They shone like the radiant bow of heaven, when the
fiery rays of the setting sun brightens its varied sides.
They wooed me to their love, but my heart was silent,
cold. Indifference, like a brazen shield, covered my
frozen heart.
Fingal saw, he smiled, and mildly spoke : My son,
the down of youth grows on thy 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 Branno's grass-
covered fields. The daughter of my friend deserves
thy love. Majestic beauty flows around her as a robe,
and innocence, as a precious veil, heightens her youth-
ful 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 its white sails to the winds, and ploughed
through the foam of ocean. Pleasant shone the fine-
eyed UU-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 morn appeared; we saw
♦ The guiding star to Ireland.
3*
30 A PRELIMINARY DISCOURSE.
the green-skirted sides of Erin advancing in the bosom
of the sea. White broke the tumbhng surges on the
coast.
Deep in Larmor's woody bay we drove our keel to
the shore, and gained the lofty beach. I inquired after
the generous Branno. A son of Erin led us to his
halls, to the banks of the sounding Lego. He said,
"Many warlike youths are assembled to gain the dark-
haired maid, the beauteous Evir-allen. Branno will
give her to the brave. The conqueror shall bear away
the fair. Erin's chiefs dispute the maid, for she is
destined for the strong in arms."
These words inflamed my breast, and roused courage
in my heart. I clad my limbs in steel. I grasped a
shining spear in my hand. Branno saw our approach.
He sent the gray-haired Snivan to invite us to his feast,
and know tlie intent of our course. He came with the
solemn steps of age, and gravely spoke the words of
the chief.
" Whence arc these arms of steel ? If friends ye
come, Branno invites you to his halls ; for this day
the lovely Evir-allen shall bless the warrior's arms
whose lanco shall shine victorious in the combat of
valor."
" O venerable bard !" I said, " peace guides my steps
to Branno. My arm is young, and few are my deeds
in war, but valor inflames my soul ; I am of the race
of the brave."
The bard departed. We followed the steps of age,
and soon arrived to Branno's halls.
The hero came to meet us. Manly serenity adorn-
ed his brow. His open front showed the kindness of
his heart. " Welcome," he said, " ye sons of stran-
gers ; welcome to Branno's friendly halls ; partake his
shell of joy. Share in the combat of S})cars. Not
unworthy is the prize of valor, the lovely dark-haired
A TKELLMINARY DISCOURSE. 31
maid of Kr'm ; but strong must l:>e that warrior's hand
that conquers Erin's chiefs ; matchless his strength in
fight."
" Chief," I repUed, '•' 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 ! n>ore
happy the maid of thy love. Thy glory shall surround
her with praise ; thy valor raise her cba'rms. O were
my Evir-allcn thy spouse, my years would pass away
in joy. Pleased I would descend into the grave : con-
fented see the end of my days."
The feast was spread : stately and slow came Evir-
ullcn. A snow-white veil covered her blushing face.
Mer large blue eyes were bent on earth. Dignity
Howed round her graceful steps. A shining tear fell
gliLtering 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 op-
pressed my breast. 1 stood, darkened in my place.
The image of the maid wandered over my troubled
soul.
The sprightly harp's melodious voice arose from the
string of the bards. My soul melted away in the
sounds, for my heart, like a stream, flowed gently
away in song. Murmurs soon broke upon our joy.
Half-unsheathed daggers gleamed. Many a voice was
heard abrupt. " Shall the son of the strangers be pre-
ferred ? Soon shall he be rolled away, like mist by
the rushing breath of the tempest." Sedate I rose, for
i despised the boaste/'s threats. The fair one's eye
followed my departure. I heard a smothered sigh
bujsl from her breast.
32 A PREMMINARY DISCOURSE.
The horn's harsh sound summoned us to the doubt-
ful 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 with-
held 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.
Groaniftg he fell to earth. Lego's shores re-eohoed
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 Lu«
tha'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 ho rushed eager on death.
He fell. Blood gushed from his panting breast. Tears
flowed streaming from mine eyes. I stretched forth
my hand to the chief. I proffered gentle words of
peace. Faintly he seized my hand. " Stranger," he
said, "I willingly die, for my days were oppressed with
wo. Evir-allen rejected my love. She slighted my
tender suit. Thou alone deservest the maid, for pitj
reigns in thy soul, and thou art generous and brave.
Tell her, I forgive her scorn. Tell her, I descend
with joy into the grave ; but raise the stone of my
praise. Let the maid throw a flower on my tomb,
and mingle one tear with my dust ; this is my sole re-
quest. This sl.e can grant to my shade."
A rRELIBIINARY DISCO'JRSE. 33
I would have spoken, but broken sighs issuing from
my breast, interrupted my faltering words. I threw
my spear aside. 1 clasped the youth in my arms : bui,
alas ! his soul was already departed to the cloudy man-
sions of his fathers.
I'hcn thrice I raised my voice, and called the chiefs
to combat. Thrice I brandished my spear, and wield-
ed 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
8way, 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. J^y
seized my enraptured soul. Branno was touched at
the sight. He closed me in his aged arms.
" O v/ert 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, " Os-
sian, the son of Fingal ;" then sunk upon his aged
breast. Our flowing tears mingled together. We re-
mained long clasped in each other's arms.
Such v/as 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 wo. 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 diflerence, in many material circumstances, be-
tween these two descriptions of, as it would seem, the
34 A PRELIMINARY DISCOURSE.
same thing, must be very apparent. "I will submit,"
says the baron, ^' the sokition of this problem to the
public." We shall follow his example.
The Honorable Henry Grattan, to whom the baron
dedicartes his work, has said, that the poems which it
contains are calculated to inspire " valor, wisdom, and
virtue." It is true, that they are adorned with nume-
rous beauties both of poetry and morality. They are
still farther distinguished and illumined by noble allu-
sions to the Omnipotent, which cannot fail to strike the
reader as a particular in which they remarkably vary
from those of Mr. Macphcrson. ''In his," says our
author, '' there is no mention of the Divinity. In these,
the chief characteristic is the many solemn descriptions
of the Almighty Being, which give a degree of eleva-
tion to them unattainable by enay other method. It is
worthy of observation how the bard gains in sublimity
by his magnificent display of the power, bounty, eter-
nity, and justice of God : and every reader must re-
joice to find the venerable old warrior occupied in de-
scriptions so worthy his great and comprehensive
genius, and to see him freed from the imputation of
atheism, with which he had been branded by many sa-
gacious and impartial men." P. vi.
We could willingly transcribe more of these poems,
but we have already quoted enough to show the style
of them, and can spare space for no additions. " La-
mer, a poem," is, the baron thinks, of a more ancient
date than that of Ossian, and " the model, perhaps, of
his compositions." Another, called " Sitric," king of
Dublin, which throws some light on the histoiy of those
times, he places in the ninth century. What faith,
however, is to be put in the genuineness of the " Frag-
* If Mr. Laing should choose to take the trouble of passing them
through his alembic; they may easily be disposed of. For instance,
*' Larnel, or the Song of despair :"
A rRELlMiiNARY DISCOURSE. 35
mejits,-'* which Baron de Harold assures us furnished
him with the ground- work of these poems, we leave it
\o others to ascertain. Our investigation is confined
.vithin far narrower limits.
It has, without doubt, been observed that in noticing
what has transpired on this subject since our last edi»
tion, we have carefully avoided any dogmatism on the
question collectedly; and having simply displayed a
torch to show the paths which lead to the labyrinth,
those who wish to venture more deeply into its intrica-
cies, may, when they please, pursue them.
We must acknowledge, before we depart, that we
cannot see \vithout indignation, or rather pity, the be-
lief of some persons that these poems are the offspring
of Macpherson's genius, so operating on their minds as
to turn their admiration of the ancient poet into contempt
of the modern. We ourselves love antiquity, not merely
however, on account of its antiquity, but because it de-
serves to be loved. No : we honestly own with Quin-
tilian, in qulbusdam antiquorum, vix rlsiim, in qiiibus-
dam aiitem vix somnuni tenej'e.* The songs of other
times, when they are, as they frequently are, supremely
beautiful, merit every praise, but we must not there-
fore despise all novelty. In the days of the Theban
bard, it would seem to have been otherwise, for he ap-
" The dreary night-owl screams in the solitary retreat of his
mouldering ivy-cpvered tower," p. 163. Taken from the Persian
I)oet Quoted by Gibbon :
" The owl hath sung her watch-song in the towers of Afrasiab "
"All nature is consonant to the horrors of my mind." Larnel,
p. 163. Evidently from the rhythmas of the Portuguese poet. One
m 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 oa
foolish as it is learned.
* Quintilian or Tacitus de Oratoribus.
36 A PRELIMINARY DISCOURSE.
pears to give the preference to old wine, but new
songs —
aivci Se Tva^aiov
fitv oivov, avdca (5' lnvfav
veurepcv. — Find. Ol. 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 inordinate
prepossessions should be moderated, and it would be
well if we were occasionally to reflect on this question,
if the ancients had been so inimicable to norelty as we
are, what would now be old ?*
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 contemporaries,
which influences the present day. This might have
stimulated him to seek in the garb of " th' olden time,'*
that respect which is sometimes despiteful ly denied to
drapeiy of a later date. Such a motive doubtlessly
swayed the designs both of Chatterton and Ireland,
whose names v/e cannot mention together without
Dryden's comment on Spenser and Flecknoe, " that is,
from the top to the bottom of all poetry." In ushering
into the world the hapless, but beautiful muse of Chat
terton, as well as the contemptible compositions of Ire-
land, it was alike thought necessary, to secure public
attention, to have recourse to " quaint Inglis," or an an-
tique dress. And to the eternal disfrrace of preju-
dice, the latter, merely in consequp/ice of their dis-
guise, found men blind enough to arlvocate their claims
to that admiration which, on theiv eyes being opened,
♦ See Horace.
A TRELIMINARY DISCOURSE. o?
they could no longer see, and from the su{)port of
which they shrunk abashed.
But we desist. It is useless to draw conclusions, aa
it is vain to reason with certain people who act un-
reasonably, since, if they were, in these particular
cases, capable of reason, they would need no reasoning
with. By some, the poems here published will be
esteemed in proportion as the argument for their an-
tiquity 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 Sehna was not idly strung,
And long sliall last the themes our poet sung.
Berrathon.
Feb. 1, 1806.
PREFACE.
Without increasing bis genius, the author may have
improved his language, in the eleven years thai the
tbllowing 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 correct-
ness 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 aftected 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 convenient indiffer-
ence for a literary reputation, the author hears praise
without being elevated, and ribaldry without being de-
pressed. 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
I'KEl-ACE. 39
often a serious matter in tiie sale of the work. When
rivers define the limits of abilities, as well as the boun-
daries of countries, a writer may measure his success
by the latitude under wliich he was born. It was to
avoid a part of this inconvenience, that the author ia
said b^ some, who speak without any authority, to have
ascribed his own productions to another name. If
this was the case, he was but young in the art of decep-
tion. 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 mat-
ters of literature ; these, however, form a majority of
every age and nation. In this country men of genuine
taste abound ; but their still voice is drowned in the
clamors of a multitude, who judge by fashion of poetry,
as of dress. The truth is, to judge aright, requires
almost as much genius as to write well ; and good
critics are as rare as great poets. Though two hun-
dred thousand Romans stood up when Virgil came into
the theatre, Varius only could correct the ^neid. 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 dignity
of expression, instead of fetters, which cramp the
thought, whilst the havmony of language is preserved.
His intention was to publish inverse. — The making of
40 PREFACE.
poetry, like any other handicraft, may be learned by
industry ; and he had served liis 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 bo left to the
readers of this preface. Tlie following is the begin,
ning of a poem, translated from the Norse to the
Gaelic language ; and, from the latter, transferred in-
to English. The vei-se took little more time to the
writer than the prose ; and he himself is doubtful (if he
has succeeded in either) which of them is the most
literal version.
FRAGMENT OF A NORTHERN TALE.
Where Harold, with golden hair, spread o'er Loch-
linn* his high commands ; where, with justice, he ruled
the tribes, who sunk, subdued, beneath his sword ; ab-
rupt rises Gormalf in snow ! the tempests roll dark on
his sides, but calm, above, his vast forehead appears.
White-issuing from the skirt of his storms, the troubled
torrents pour down his sides. Joining, as they roar
along, they bear the Torno, in foam, to the main.
Gray on the bank, and far from men, half-covered,
by ancient pines, from the wind, a lonely pile exalts
its head, long shaken by the storms of the north. To
this fled Sigurd, fierce in fi,^ht, from Harold the leader
of armies, when fate had brightened his spear with re-
nown : 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;
♦ The Gaelic name of Scandinavia, or Scandinia
♦■The mountains of Sevo.
PREFACE. 41
yet sorrow dwelt not in his soul. But when the war-
rior thought on the past, his proud heart heaved
against his side : forth flew his sword from its place :
he wounded Harold in all the winds.
One daughter, and only one, but bright in form and
mild of soul, the last beam of the setting line, remained
to Sigurd of all his race. His son, in Lulan's battle
slain, beheld not his father's flight from his foes. Nor
finished seemed the ancient line ! The splendid beauty
of bright-eyed Fithon covered still the fallen king with
renown. Her arm was white like Gormal's snow ; her
bosom whiter than the foam of the main, when roll the
waves beneath the wrathof the winds. Like tv/o stars
were her radiant eyes, like two stars that rise on the
deep, when dark tumult embroils the night. Pleasant
are their beams aloft, as stately they ascend the skies.
Nor Odin forgot, in aught, the maid. Her form
scarce equalled her lofty mind. Awe moved around
her stately steps. Heroes loved — but shrunk away in
their fears. Yet, midst the pride of all her charms, her
heart was soft and her soul was kind. She saw the
mournful with tearful eyes. Transient darkness arose
in her breast. Her joy was in the chase. Each
morning, when doubtful light wandered dimly on Lu-
lan's waves, she roused the resounding woods to Gor-
mal's head of snow. Nor moved the maid alone, &;c.
The same versified.
Where fair-hair'd Harold, o'er Scandinia reign'd,
And held with justice what his valor gain'd,
Scvo, in snow, his rugged forehead rears,
And, o'er the warfare of his storms, appears
Abrupt and vast. — White \vandering down his side
A thousand torrents, gleaming as they glide,
Unite below, and, pouring through the plain.
Hurry the troubled Tor no to the main.
4*
42 PREFACi:.
Gray, on the bank, remote from human kind,
By aged pines lialf-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 Bothoic 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 overturned 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 j-adiant eyes
Like two bright stars, exulting as they rise,
O'er the dark tumult of a stormy night,
And gladd'ning heaven with their majestic light.
In nought is Odin to the maid unkind,
Her form scarce equals her exalted mind ;
Awe leads her sacred steps where'er they move,
And mankind worship where they dare not love.
But mix'd with softness was the virgin's pride,
Her heart 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 wand'ring o'er the Bothnic stream.
On Sevo's sounding sides she bent the bow,
And rous'd his forests to his head of snow.
Nor moved the maid abne, &c.
FKEFACE. 43
One of the chief improvements, in this edition, is the
care taken in arranging the poems in the order of
time ; so as to form a kind of regular history of the
age to which they relate. The writer has now resigned
them forever to their fate. That they have been well
received by the public appears from an extensive sale ;
that they shall continue to be well received, he may
venture to prophesy, without the gift of that inspiration
to which poets lay claim. Through the medium of
version upon version, they retain, in foreign languages,
their native character of simplicity and energy. Gen-
uine poetry, like gold, loses little, when properly trans-
fused ; but when a composition cannot bear the test of
a literal version, it is a counterfeit which ought not to
pass current. The operation must, however, be per
formed with skilful hands. A translator who cannot
equal his original, is incapable of expressing its beau-
ties.
London^
Aiiff. 15, 1773.
DISSERTATION
CONCERNING
THE ^RA OF OSSIAN
Inquiries into the antir|>i\ties of nations afford moie
pleasure than any real a'lvantage to mankind. The
ingenious may form systems of history on probabili'i ■ >
and a few facts ; but, at a yrcat distance of time, ihtir
accounts must be vague ai'd uncertain. The infancy
of states and kingdoms is as destitute of great events^
as of the means of transmitting them to posterity.
The arts of polished life, by which alone facts can be
preserved with certainty, are the production of a well-
formed community. It is then historians begin tu
write, and public transactions to be worthy remem
brance. The actions of former times are left in ob-
scurity, or magnified by uncertain traditions. lienor
it is that we find so much of the marvellous in the ori
gin of every nation ; posterity being always ready te
believe any thing, however fabulous, that reflects honoi
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 na-
tions. Good historians, however, rose very early
DISSERTATION, ETC. 45
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 instance
of this kind. They, though once the masters of Eu-
rope, from the mouth of the river Oby, in Russia, to
Cape Finisterre, the western point of Gallicia, in Spain,
are very little mentioned in history. They trusted
their fame to tradition and the songs of their bards,
which, by the vicissitude of human atTairs, are long
since lost. Their ancient language is the only monu-
ment that rem.ains of them ; and the traces of it being
found in places so widely distant from each other,
serves only to show the extent of their ancient power,
but throws very little light on their history.
Of all the Celtic nations, that which possessed old
Gaul is the most renowned : not perhaps on account of
worth superior to the rest, but for their wars with a
people who had historians to transmit the fame of their
enemies, as well as their own, to posterity. Britain
was first peopled by them, according to the testimony
of the best authors ; its situation in respect to Gaul
makes the opinion probable ; but what puts it'beyond
all dispute, is, that the same customs and language
prevailed among the inhabitants of both in the days of
Julius Csesar.
The colony from Gaul possessed themselves, at first,
of that part of Britain which was next to their own
countiy ; 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
46 DISSERTATION ON
his time, that the inhabitants of Ireland were originally
Britons ; and his testimony is unquestionable, when
we consider that, for many ages, the language and cus-
toms 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 nation*
were similar ; but their language different. The Ger
mans are the genuine descendants of the rvncient Scan
dinavians, who crossed, at an early period, the Baltic.
The Celtge, anciently, sent many colonies into Ger-
many, all of whom retained their own laws, language,
and customs, till they were dissipated, in the Roman
empire ; and it is of them, if any colonies came from
Germany into Scotland, that the ancient Caledonians
were descended.
But whether the ancient Caledonians were a colony
of the Celtic Germans, or the same with the Gauls that
first possessed themselves of Britain, is a matter of no
moment at this distance of time. Whatever their ori-
gin was, we llnd 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 mon-
archy, as it was in all the countries where the Druids
bore the chief sway. This order of men seems to
have been formed on the same principles with the Dac-
tyli, Idee, and Curetes of the ancients. Their pretended
intercourse with heaven, their magic awd divination,
were the same. The knowledge of the Druids in natu-
ral causes, and the properties of certain things, the
fruits of the experiments of ages, gained them a mighty
reputation among the people. The esteem of the
populace soon inci eased into a veneration for the or-
THE ^RA OF OSSIAN. 47
der ; which these cunning and ambitious priests took
care to improve, to such a degree, tliat they, in a man-
ner, engrossed the management of civil, as well as re-
hgious matters. It is generally allowed, that they did
not abuse this extraordinary power ; the preserving the
character of sanctity was so essential to their influ-
ence, that they never broke out into violence or
oppression. The chiefs were allowed to execute the
laws, but the legislative power was entirely in the
hands of the Druids. It was by their authority that
the tribes were united, in times of the greatest danger,
under one head. This temporary king, or Vergobre-
tus, was chosen by them, and generally laid down his
office at the end of the war. These priests enjoyed
long this extraordinary privilege among the Celtic 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, are full of the particulars of the fall of the
Druids : a singular fate it must be owned, of priests
wlio had once established their superstition.
The continual wars of the Caledonicms against the
Romans, hindered the bettor 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
magistrate, was chosen without the concurrence of the
Hierarchy, or continued in his office against their will.
Continual power strengthened his interest among the
tribes, and enabled him to send down, as hereditary to
nis posterity, the office he had only received himself
by election.
On occasion of a new war against the " king of th3
world," as tradition emphatically calls the Roman em-
46 I)I.S:SKRTATI()N ON
peror, the Druids, to vindicate the honor of the order,
began to resume their ancient privilege of choosing the
Vergobretus. Garmal, the son of Tarno, being de-
puted by them, came to the grandfather of the cele-
brated Fingal, who was then Vergobretus, and com-
manded him, in the name of the whole order, to lay
down his office. Upon his refusal, a civil war com-
menced, which soon ended in almost the total extinction
of the religious order of the Druids. A few that re-
mained, retired to the dark recesses of their groves,
and the caves they had formerly used for their medita-
tions. It is then we find them in the circle of stones,
and unheeded by the world. A total disregard for the
order, and utter abhorrence of the Druidical rites en-
sued. Under this cloud of public hate, all that had any
knowledge of the religion of the Druids became ex-
tinct, and the nation fell into the last degree of igno-
rance of their rites and ceremonies.
It is no matter of wonder, tlicn, that Fingal and his
son Ossian disliked the Druids, who were the declared
enemies to their succession in the supreme magistracy.
It is a singular case, it must be allowed, that there are
no traces of religion in the poems ascribed to Ossian,
as the poetical compositions of other nations are so
closely connected with their mythology. But gods are
not necessary, when the poet has genius. It is hard to
account for it to those who are not made acquainted
with the manner of the old Scottish bards. That race
of men carried their notions of martial honor to an ex-
travagant pitch. Any aid given their heroes in battle,
was thought to derogate from their fame ; and the
bards immediatel}'^ transferred the glory of the action
to him who had given that aid.
Had the poet brought down gods, as often as Homei
has done, to assist his heroes, his work had not con-
sisted of eulogiums on men, but of hymns to superioi
THE JiRA OF OSSIAN. 49
beings. Those who write in the Gaelic language sel-
dom mention religion in their profane poetry* and
wljien 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 been previously extinguished,
may, in some measure, excuse the author's silence con-
3erning the religion of ancient times.
To allege that a nation is void of all religion, betrays
ignorance of the history of mankind. The traditions
of their fathers, and their own observations on the
works of nature, together with that superstition which
is inherent in the human frame, have, in all ages,
raised in the minds of men some idea of a superior
being. Hence it is, that in the darkest times, and
amongst the most barbarous nation.s, the very populace
themselves had some faint notion, at least, of a divinity.
The Indians, who worship no God, believe that he ex-
ists. It would be doing injustice to the author of these
poems, to think that he had not opened his conceptions
to that primitive and greatest of all truths. But let his
religion be what it will, it is certain that he has not al-
luded to Christianity or any of its rites, in his poems ;
which ought to fix his opinions, at least, to an era prior
to that religion. Conjectures, on this subject, must
supply the place of proof. The persecution begun by
Dioclesian, in the year 303, is the most probable time
in which the first dawning of Christianity in the north
of Britain can be fixed. The humane and mild char-
acter of Constantius Chlorus, who commanded then in
Britain, induced the persecuted Christians to take refuge
under him. Some of them, through a zeal to propa-
gate their tenets, or through fear, went beyond the pale
of the Roman empire, and settled among the Caledo-
nians ; who were ready to hearken to their doctrines,
if the religion of the Druids was exploded long before.
5
50 DISSERTATION ON
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 Cul-
dees, which, in the language of the country, signified
"the sequestered persons." It was with one of the
Culdees that Ossian, in his extreme old age, is said to
have disputed concerning the Christian religion. This
dispute they say, is extant, and is couched in verse, ac-
cording to the custom of the times. The 'extreme
ignorance on the part of Ossian of the Christian t(;nets,
shows that that religion had only lately been introduced,
as it is not easy to conceive how one of the first ranl^
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 intro-
duction of Christianity, as by all appearance he did,
his epoch will be the latter end of the third, and begin-
ning of the fourth century. Tradition here steps in
with a kind of proof.
The exploits of Fingal against Caracul, the son of
the " king of the world," are among the first brave
actions of his youth. A complete poem, which relates
to this subject, is printed in this collection.
In the year 210, the Emperor Severus, after return-
ing from his expedition against the Caledonians at
York, fell into the tedious illness of which he after-
ward died. The Caledonians and Maiatse, resuming
courage from his indisposition, took arms in order to
recover the possessions they had lost. The enraged
emperor commanded his army to march into their
country, and to destroy it with fire and sword. His
orders were but ill executed ; for his son Caracalla was
at the head of the army, and his thoughts were entirely
THE JERA OF OSSIAN. 51
taken up with the hopes of his father's death, and with
schemes to supplant his brother Geta. He scarcely
had entered into the enemy's country, when news was
brought him that Severus was dead. A sudden peace
is patched up with the Caledonians, and, as it appears
from Dion Cassius, the country they had lost to Severus
was restored to them.
The Caracul of Fingal is no other than Caracalla,
who as the son of Severus, the emperor of Rome,
whose dominions were extended almost over the known
world, was not without reason called the " son of the
king of the world." The space of time between 211,
the year Severus died, and the beginning of the fourth
century is not so great, but Ossian, the son of Fingal,
might have seen the Christians whom the persecution
vmder Dioclesian had driven beyond the pale of the
Roman empire.
In one of the many lamentations of the death of Os-
car, a battle which he fought against Caros, king of
ships, on the banks of the winding Carun, is mentioned
among his great actions. It is more than probable,
that the Caros mentioned here, is the same with the
noted usurper Carausius, who assumed the purple in
the year 287, and seizing on Britain, defeated the Em-
peror Maximinian Herculius in several naval engage-
ments, which gives propriety to his being called the
''king of ships." "The winding Carun," is that
small river retaining still the name of Carron, and runs
in the neighborhood of Agricola's wall, which Carau-
sius repaired, to obstruct the incursions of the Caledo-
nians. Several other passages in traditions allude to
the wars of the Romans ; but the two just mentioned
clearly fix the epocha of Fingal to the third century ;
and this account agrees exactly with the Irish histories,
which place the death of Fingal, the son of Comhal, in
52 DISSERTATION ON
the year 283, and that of Oscar and their own ceie-
brated Cairbre, in the year 296.
Some people may imagine, tliat the allusions to the
Roman history might have been derived by tradition,
from learned men, more than from ancient poems.
This must then have happened at least three hundred
years ago, as these allusions are mentioned often in the
compositions of those times.
Every one knows what a cloud of ignorance and
barbarism overspread the north of Europe three hun-
dred years ago. The minds of men, addicted to su-
perstition, contracted a narrowness that destroyed ge-
nius. 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 circum-
stances of the age, a genius might arise ; it is not easy
to determine what could induce him to allude to the
Roman times. Wc find no fact to fjxvor 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 tradi-
tion through so many centuries. Ages of barbarism,
some will say, could not produce poems abounding with
the disinterested and generous sentiments so conspicu-
ous in the compositions of Ossian ; and could these
ages produce them, it is impossible but they must be
lost, or altogether corrupted, in a long succession of
barbarous generations.
Those objections naturally suggest themselves to
men unacquainted with the ancient state of the north-
ern parts of Britain. The bards, who were an inferior
order of the Druids, did not share tlteir bad fortune.
They were spared by the victorious king, as it was
Hirough their means only he could hope for immortality
THE ^RA OF OSSIAN. 53
to his fame. They attended him in the camp, atid
contributed to establish his power by their songs. His
great actions were magnified, and the populace, who
liad no ability to examine into his character narrowly,
were dazzled with his fame in the rhymes of the bards.
In the mean time, men assumed sentiments that are
rarely to be met with in an age of barbarism. The
bards, who were originally the disciples of the Druids,
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 infe-
rior chiefs made this ideal character the model of their
conduct ; and, by degrees, brought their minds to that
generous spirit which breathes in all the poetry of the
times. The prince, flattered by his bards, and rivalled
by his own heroes, who imitated his character as de-
scribed in the eulogies of his poets, endeavored to ex-
cel his people in merit, as he was above them in station.
This emulation continuing, formed at last the general
character of the nation, happily compounded of what
is noble in barbarity, and virtuous and generous in a
polished people.
When virtue in peace, and bravery in war, are the
characteristics of a nation, their actions become inter-
esting, and Ihcir fame worthy of immortality. A gen-
erous spirit is warmed with noble actions, and becomes
ambitious of perpetuating them. This is the true
source of that divine inspiration, to which the poets of
all ages pretended. When they found their themes
inadequate to the warmth of their imaginations, they
varnished them over with fables supplied with their own
fancy, or furnished by absurd traditions. These fables,
however ridiculous, had their abettors ; posterity either
implicitly believed them, or through a vanity natural to
mankind, pretended that they did. They loved to
54 dist.^rtation on
place the foundi & of ^heir families in the days of
fable, when poeti'}t, without the fear of contradiction,
could give what character she pleased of her heroes.
It is to this vanity that we owe th-e preservation of what
remain of the more ancient poems. Their poetical
merit made their heroes famous in a country where
heroism was much esteemed and admired. The pos-
terity of these heroes, or those who pretended to be
descended from them, heard with pleasure the eulo-
giums of their ancestors ; bards were employed to re-
peat the poems, and to record the connection of their
patrons with chiefs so renowned. Every chief, in pro-
cess of time, had a bard in his family, and the office
became at last hereditary. By the succession of these
bards, the poems concerning the ancestors of the family
were handed down from generation to generation ;
they were repeated to the whole clan on solemn occa-
sions, and always alluded to in the new compositions
of the bards. This custom came down to near our
own times ; and after the bards were discontinued, a
great number in a clan retained by memory, or com-
mitted to writing, their compositions, and founded the
antiquity of their families on the authority of their
poems.
The use of letters was not known in the north of
Europe till long after the institution of the bards : the
records of the families of their patrons, their own, and
more ancient poems, were handed down by tradition.
Their poetical compositions were admirably contrived
for that purpose. They were adapted to music ; and
the most perfect harmony was observed. Each verse
was so connected with those which preceded or followed
It, that if one line had been remembered in a stanza, it
was almost impossible to forget the rest. The cadences
followed so natural a gradation, and the words were so
adapted to the common turn of the voice, after it is
TIIK JERA OF OSSIAN. 55
raised to a certain key, that it was almost impossible,
from a similarity of sound, to substitute one word for
another. This excellence is peculiar to the Celtic
tongue, and is perhaps to be met with in no other lan-
guage. Nor does this c*hoice of words clog the sense,
or weaken the expression. The numerous flexions of
consonants, and variation in declension, make the lan-
guage very copious.
The descendants of the Celtas, who inhabited Britain
and its isles, were not singular in this method of pre-
serving the most precious monuments of their nation.
The ancient laws of the Greeks were couched in verse,
and handed down by tradition. The Spartans, through
a long habit, became so fond of this custom, that they
would never allow their laws to be committed to wri-
ting. The actions of great men, and eulogiums of
kings and heroes, were preserved in the same manner.
All the historical monuments of the old Germans were
comprehended in their ancient songs; which were
either hymns to their gods, or elegies in praise of their
heroes, and were intended to perpetuate the great
events in their nation, which were carefully interwoven
with them. This species of composition was not com-
mitted to writing, but delivered by oral tradition. The
care they took to have the poems taught to their chil-
dren, the uninterrupted custom of repeating them upon
certain occasions, and the happy measure of the verse,
served to preserve them for a long time uncorrupted.
This oral chronicle of the Germans was not forgot in
the eighth century; and it probably would have re-
mained 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 liad lost all other monuments of their
history, and it was from ancient poems, which his n;o=
56 DISSERTATION, ETC.
ther, a princess of the blood of the Incas, taught him in
his youth, that he collected the materials of his history.
If other nations, then, that had often been overrun by
enemies, and hath sent abroad and received colonies,
could for many ages preserve, by oral tradition, their
laws and histories uncorrupted, it is much more proba-
ble that the ancient Scots, a people so free of intermix-
ture 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 mere conjecture. Beyond the reach
of records is settled a gloom which no ingenuity can
penetrate. The manners described in these poems
suit the ancient Celtic times, and no other period that
is known in history. We must, therefore, place the
heroes far back in antiquity ; and it matters little, who
were their contemporaries in other parts of the world.
If we have placed Fingal in his proper period, we do
honor to the manners of barbarous times. He exercised
every manly virtue in Caledonia, while Heliogabalus
disgraced human nature at Rome.
DISSERTATION
CONCERNING THE POEMS OF OSSIAN.
The history of those nations who originally pos-
sessed the north of Europe, is less known than their
manners. Destitute of the use of letters, they them-
selves had not the means of transmitting their great
actions to remote posterity. Foreign w^riters saw them
only at a distance, and described them as they found
them. The vanity of the Romans induced them to
consider the nations beyond the pale of their empire as
barbarians ; and, consequently, their history unworthy
of being investigated. Their manners and singular
character were matters of curiosity, as they committed
them to record. Some men otherwise of great merit,
among ourselves, give into confined ideas on this sub-
ject. Having early imbibed their idea of exalted man-
ners from the Greek and Roman writers, they scarcely
ever afterward have the fortitude to allow any dignity
of character to any nation destitute of the use of let-
ters.
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
68 DISSKRTATION ON
passions of the mind nevei shoot forth mor^ free and
unrestrained than in the times we call burbarous.
That irregular manner of life, and those manly pursuits,
from which barbarity takes it name, are highly favor-
able 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 man-
ners ; and the powers of the soul, without an opportu-
nity of exerting them, lose their vigor. The times of
regular government, and polished manners, are there-
fore to be wished for by the feeble and weak in mind.
An unsettled state, and those convulsions which attend
it, is the proper field for an exalted character, and the
exertion of great parts. Merit there rises always su-
perior ; 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 pleasuie in tracing nations to their
source. The establishment of the Celtic states, in the
north of Europe, is beyond the reach of written annals.
The traditions and songs to which they trusted their
history, were lost, or altogether corrupted, in their
revolutions and migrations, which were so frequent and
universal, that no kingdom in Europe is now possessed
by its original inhabitants. Societies were formed,
and kingdoms erected, from a mixture of nations, who,
in process of time, lost all knowledge of their own ori-
gin. If tradition could be depended upon, it is only
among a people, from all time, free from intermixture
with foreigners. We are to look for these among the
mountains and inaccessible parts of a country : places,
on account of their barrenness, uninviting to an enemy,
or whose natural strength enabled the natives to repel
invasions. Such are the inhabitants of the mountains
of Scotland. We, accordingly find that they differ
THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 59
materially from those who possess the low and more
fertile parts of the kingdom. Their language is pure
and original, and their manners are those of an ancient
and unmixed race of men. Conscious of their own
antiquity, they long despised others, as a new and mix-
ed people. As they lived in a country only fit for pas-
ture, they were free from that toil and business which
engross the attention of a commercial people. Their
amusement consisted in hearing or repeating their
songs and traditions, and these entirely turned on the
antiquity of their nation, and the exploits of their fore-
fathers. It is no wonder, therefore, that there are
more remains among them, than among any other
people in Europe. Traditions, however, concerning
remote periods are only to be regarded, in so far as
they coincide with contemporary writers of undoubted
credit and veracity.
No writers began their accounts for a more early
period than the historians of the Scots nation. With-
out records, or even tradition itself, they gave a long
list of ancient lyings, 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 color and dress.
John Fordun was the first who collected those frag-
ments of the Scots history which had escaped the bru-
tal 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 be-
60 PISSERTATION ON
fore Fordiin wrote, the king of England, in a letter to
the pope, had run up the antiquity of his nation to a
very remote sera. Fordun, possessed of all the national
prejudice of the age, was unwilling that his country
should yield, in point of antiquity, to a people then its
rivals and enemies. Destitute of annals in Scotland,
he had recourse to Ireland, which, according to the
vulgar error of the times, was reckoned the first habi-
tation 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 follow-
ed his system, though they sometimes varied from him
in their relations of particular transactions and the or-
der of succession of their kings. As they had no new
lights, and were equally with him unacquainted with
the traditions of their country, their histories contain
little information concerning the origin of the Scots.
Even Buchanan himself, except the elegance and vigor
of his style, has very little to recommend him. Blinded
with political prejudices, he seemed more anxious to
turn the fictions of his predecessors to his own purposes,
than to detect their misrepresentations, or investigate
truth amidst the darkness which they had thrown round
it. It therefore appears, that little can be collected
from their own historians concerning the first migra-
tions of the Scots into Britain.
That this island was peopled from Gaul admits of no
doubt. Whether colonies came afterward from the
north of Europe, is a matter of mere speculation.
When South Britain yielded to the power of the Ro-
mans, the unconquered nations to the north of the
province were distinguished by the name of Caledo-
oians From their very name, it appears that they
TIIF. POEMS OF OSSIAN. 01
were of those Gauls who possessed themselves origi-
nally of Britain. It is compounded of tv/o Celtic
words, Cad signifying Celts, or Gauls, and l)un or
Don, a hill ; so that Caeldon, or Caledonians, is as
much as to say, the " Celts of the hill country."' The
Highlanders, to this day, call themselves Cael, and
their language Gaelic, or Galic, and their counti^
Caeldock, which the Romans softened into Caledonia.
This, oi itself, is sufficient to demonstrate that they are
the genuine descendants of the ancient Caledonians,
and not a pretended colony of Scots, who settled first
in the north, in the third or fourth century.
From the double meaning of the word Cael, which
signifies " strangers," as well as Gauls, or Cells, some
have imagined, that the ancestors of the Caledonians
were of a dilTerent 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 v/ere of German extraction. A discussion of
a point so intricate, at this distance of lime, 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.
Porphirius makes the first mention of them about that
time. As the Scots vrere not heard of before that
period, most writers supposed them to have been a
colony, newly come to Britain, and that the Picts were
the only genuine descendants of the ancient Caledoni
ans. This mistake is easily removed. The Caledoni-
ans, in process of time, became naturally divided into
two distinct nations, as possessing parts of the countiy
entirely difterent in their nature and soil. The we:;t-
ern coast of Scotland is hilly and barren ; towards f(tr U3.3IAN. 97
philosophers and priests ; the bards their poets and re-
corders of heroic actions ; and both these orders of
men seem to have subsisted among them, as chief mem-
bers of the sta-te, from time immemorial. We must not
therefore imagine the Celtge to have been altogether a
gross and rude nation. They possessed from very re-
mote ages a formed S3'stem of discipline and manners,
which appears to have had a deep and lasting influence.
Ammianus Marcellinus gives them this express testi-
mony, that there floui-ished 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 toge-
ther 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
mention the bards, yet it is plain that, under the title
of Druids, he comprehends that whole college or or-
der ; of v.'hich the bards, who, it is probable, were the
disciples of the druids, undoubtedly made a part. It
deserves remark, that, according to his account, the
druidical instiuuion first took rise in Britain, and passed
from thence into Gaul ; so that they who aspired to be
thorough masters of that learning, were wont to resort
to Britain. He adds, too, that such as were to be in-
itiated among the druids, v^^ere obliged to commit to
their memory a great number of verses, insomuch that
gome employed twenty years in this course of educa-
lion ; 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 tc
their poetry and bards, that, amidst all the changes of
their government and manners, even long after the or=
der of the druids was extinct, and the national religion
9
98 CRITICAL DISSERTATION
iiltered, the bards continued to /lourish ; not ay a set of
strolling songsters, like the Greek 'AolSoi, or Rhapso-
dists, in Homer's time, but as an order of men highly
respected in the state, and supported by a" public cstab-
lishmeiit. We find them, according to the testimonies
of Strabo and Diodorus, before the age of Augustus
Ccesar ; and we find them remaining under the same
name, and exercising the same functions as of old, in
(reland, and in the north of J^cotland, almost down to
•>ur own times. It is well known, that in both these
countries every regulus or chief had his own bard, who
was considered as an officer of rank in his court ; and had
lands assigned him, which descended to his family. Of
the honor in which the bards were held, many instances
occur in Ossian's Poems. On all important occasions
they were the ambassadors between contending chiefs ;
Mnd their persons were held sacred. " Cairbar feared to
stretch h's sword to the bards, though his soul was
dark. ' Loose the bards,' said his brother Cathmor,
' they are the sons of other times. Their voice shall
be heard in' other ages, wlien liie kings of Temora have
failed.'"
From all this, the Celtic tribes clearly appear to have
been addicted in so high a degree to poetry, and to
have made it so much their study from the earliest
times, as may remove our wonder at meeting with a
vein of higher poetical refinement among them, than
was at first to have been expected among nations whom
we are accustomed to call barbarous. Barbarity. I
must observe, is a very equivocal term ; it admits of
many different forms and degrees; and though, in all
of them, it excludes polished manners, it is, however,
not inconsistent with generous sentiments and tender
affections. What degrees of friendship, love, and
heroism may possibly be found to prevail in a rude state
of society, no one can say. Astonishing instances of
ON THE POEMS OP OSSIAN. 99
them we know, from history, have sometimes appear-
ed ; and a few characters, distinguished by those high
quaUties, 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 license, than the real manners of the country.
In particular, Avith respect to heroism ; the great
employment of the Celtic bards was to de-lineate the
characters, and sing the praises of heroes. So Lucan—
Vos cjuoque qui iortes animos, belloque peremptos,
Laudibus in lon^jim vates diiruiiditis sevum
Plurima securi, Hdistis carmina bardi. — Phars. 1. 1.
Now when \ve consider a college or order of men,
who, cultivating poetry throughout a long scries of ages,
had their im;\ginations continually employed on the
ideas of heroism ; who had all the poems and pane-
gyrics, which were composed by their predecessors,
handed down to them with care ; who rivalled and
endeavored to outstrip those who had gone before
them, each in the cfdebration 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 Fin-
gal, moderation, humanity, and clemency, would 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 hu-
man mind easily opens to the native representations
of human perfection, they would be seized and em-
braced ; they would enter into their panegyrics ; they
would afibrd ma,terials for succeeding bards to v/ork
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 Iheir whole life, both in war and in
100 CRITICAL DISSERTATION
peace, their principal entertainment, must have had a
very considerable influence in propagating among
them real manners, nearly approaching to the poeti-
cal ; and in forming even such a hero as Fingal.
Especially when we consider, that among their limited
objects of ambition, among the few advantages which,
in a savage state, man could obtain over man, the
chief was fame, and that immortality which they ex-
pected to receive from their virtues and exploits, in
the songs of bards.
Having made these remarks on the Celtic poetry
iiiid bards in general, I shall next consider the particu-
lar advantages which Ossian possessed. He appears
clearly to have lived in a period which enjoyed all the
benefit I just now mentioned of traditionary poetry.
The exploits of Trathal, Trenmor, and the other an-
cestors of Fingal, are spoken of as familiarly known.
Ancient bards are frequently alluded to. In one re-
markable 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 igno-
rance 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 sensi-
bility of heart ; prone to that tender melancholy which
is so often an attendant on great genius : and suscepti-
ble equally of strong and of soft emotion. He was
not only a professed bard, educated with care, as we
may easily believe, to all the poetical art then known,
and connected, as he shows us himself, in intimate
friendship with the other contemporary bards, but a
warrior also ; and the son of the most renowned hero
and prince of his age. This formed a conjunction of
ON THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 101
circumstances uncommonly favorable towards exalting
the imagination of a poet. He relates expeditions in
which he had been engaged ; he sings of battles in
which he had fought and overcome ; he had beheld the
most illustrious scenes which that age could exhibit,
both of heroism in war and magnificence in peace.
For however rude the magnificence of those times may
seem to us, we must remember, that all ideas of mag-
nificence are comparative ; and that the age of Fingal
was an sera of distinguished splendor in that part of the
world. Fingal reigned over a considerable territory ;
he was enriched with the spoils of the Roman province j
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 tlie same country, after a more extensive
monarchy was established.
The manners of Ossian's age, so far as we can
gather them from his writings, were abundantly favor-
able to a poetical genius. The two dispiriting vices,
to which Longinus imputes the decline of poetry, cov-
etousness and effeminacy, were as yet unknown. The
cares of men were few. They lived a roving indolent
life ; hunting and war their principal employments ;
and their chief amusements, the music of bards, and
" the feast of shells." The great objects pursued by
heroic spirits, was " to receive their fame ;" that is, to
become worthy of being celebrated in the songs of
bards ; and " to have their name on the four gray
stones." To die unlamented by a bard, was deemed so
great a misfortune as even to disturb their ghosts in
another state. " They wander in thick mists beside
the reedy lake ; but never shall they rise, without the
song, to the dwelling of winds." After death, they
expected to follow employments of the same nature
with those which had amused them on earth ; to fly
9*
102 CKITIOAL IJlS^KRTATiO.S
with tlieir iricnds on clouds, to pursue airy deer, and to
listen to their praise in tlie mouths of bards. In such
times as these, in a country where poetry had been so
long cultivated, and so highly honored, is it any won-
der that, among the race and succession of bards, one
Homer should arise : a man, who, endowed with a
natural happy genius, favored with peculiar advantages
of birth and condition, and meeting, in the course of his
life, with a variety of incidents proper to fire his imagi-
nation, and to touch his heart, should attain a degree
of eminence in j)octry, worthy to draw the admiration
of more refined ages ?
The compositions of Ossian are so strongly marked
with characters of antiquity, that although there were
no external proof to support that antiquity, hardly any
reader of judgment and taste could hesitate in referring
them to a very remote sera. Tliere are four great
stages through which men successively pass in the pro-
gress of society. The first and earliest is the life of
hunters ; pa.sturage succeeds to this, as the ideas of
property begin to take root ; next agriculture ; and,
lastly, commerce. Throughout Ossian's Poems we
plainly find ourselves in the first of these periods of so-
ciety; during which hunting was the chief employment of
men, and the principal method of their procuring subsist-
ence. 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 ap-
pear to have been built in the territories of Fingal. No
arts are mentioned, except that of navigation and of
working in iron. Every thing presents to us the most
simple and unimproved manners. At their feasts, the
heroes prepared their own repast ; they sat round the
light of the burning oak ; the wind lifted their locks,
and whistled through their open halh;. Whatever was
beyond the neuessai-ies 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 mast strike us
the more, as genuine and authentic, when it is com-
pared with a poem of later date, which ?»Ir. Macpher-
son has preserved in one of his notes. It is that in
whi<:h 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 \vhich betray a later period of society.
For we meet with windows clapping, the herds of goats
and cows seeking shelter, the shepherd v^andering, corn
on the plain, and the wakeful hind rebuilding the shocks
of corn which had been overturned by the tempest.
Whereas, in Ossian's works, from beginning to end, all
is consistent ; no modern allusion drops from him ; but
everywhere the same face of rude Uciture appears ; a
country wholly uncultivated, thinly inhabited, and re-
cently peopled. The grass of the rock, the flower of
the heath, the thistle with its beard, are the chief orna-
ments of his landscapes. '' The desert,'' says Fingal,
" is enough for me, with all its woods and deer."
The circle (^f* ideas and transactions is no 'vider than
suits such an age ; nor any greater diversity introduceed naked, and deprived of funeral
honors, shall be devoured by the vultures. Whereas,
in the character of Fingal, concur almost all the quali-
ties 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 generosity.
He is merciful to his foes ; full of affection to his chil-
dren ; full of concern about his friends ; and never
mentions Agandecca, his first love, without the utmost
tenderness. He is the universal protector of the dis-
tressed; "None ever went sad from Fingal." — " O,
Oscar ! bend the strong in arms ; but spare the feeble
ON THE FOEMS OF OSSIAK. 121
hand. Be thou a stream of mighty tides against the
foes of thy people ; but like the gale that moves the
grass to those who ask thine aid. So Trenmor lived ;
such Trathal was ; and such has Fingal been. My
arm was the support of the injured ; the weak rested
behind the lightning of my steel." These were the
maxims of true heroism, to which he formed his grand-
son. His fame is represented as everywhere spread ;
the greatest heroes acknowledge his superiority ; his
enemies tremble at his name ; and the highest enco-
mium that can be bestowed on one whom the poets would
most exalt, is to say, that his soul was like the soul of
Fingal.
To do justice to the poet's merit, in supporting suc^h
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 char-
acter in such a manner as to render it distinct, and
affecting to the mind. Some strokes of human imper-
fection and frailty, are what usually give us the most
clear view, and the most sensible impression of a char-
acter ; because they present to us a man, such as we
have seen : they recall known features of human
nature. When poets attempt to go beyond this range,
and describe a faultless hero, they for the most part set
before us a sort of vague, undistinguishable character,
such as the imagination cannot lay hold of, or realize
to itself as the object of affection. We know how
much Virgil has failed in this particular. His perfect
hero, 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,
Ossian, to our astonishment, has successfully executed.
His Fingal, though exhibited without any of the com-
mon human failings, is, nevertheless, a real man ; a
character which touches and interests every reader.
11
122 RiTlCAi, DISyEKTATION
To this it has much contributed that the poet has rep-
resented him as an old man ; and by this has gained
the advantage of throwing around him a great many
circumstances, peculiar to that age, which paint him to
the fancy in a more distinct light. He is surrounded
with his family ; he instructs his children in the 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 moraUze, 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 a situation that
admits it to be rendered particular, and to be clothed
with a variety of circumstances, it always stands out
more clear and full of poetical description.
Besides human personages, divine or supernatural
agents are often introduced into epic poetry, forming
what is called the machinery of it ; which most critics
hold to be an essential part. The mnrvellous, 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 propensity
towards it. But I must observe, that nothing is more
difficult than to adjust properly the marvellous with the
probable. If a poet sacrifice probability, and fill his
work with extravagant supernatural scenes, he spreads
o"er it an appearance of romance and childish fiction ;
he transpoits his readers from this world into a fantas-
tic visionary region ; and loses that weight and dignity
which should reign in epic poetry. No work from
which probability is altogether banished, can make a
ON THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 123
lasting or deep impression. Human actions and man-
ners are always the most interesting objects which can
be presented to a human mind. All machinery, there-
fore, is faulty, which withdraws these too much from
view, or obscures them under a cloud of incredible fic-
tions. Besides being temperately employed, machinery
ought always to have some foundation in popular belief.
A poet is by no means at liberty to invent what system
of the marvellous he pleases ; he must avail himself
either of the religious faith, or the superstitious credu-
lity 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 mythol-
ogy was invented by him '' in consequence of profound
reflection on the benefits it would yield to poetry."
Homer was no such refining genius. He found the
traditionary stories, on which he built his Iliad, min-
gled with popular legends concerning the intervention
of the gods ; and he adopted these because they amused
the fancy. Ossian, in like manner, found the tales of
his country full of ghosts and spirits ; it is likely he
believed them himself ; and he introduced them, be-
cause they gave his poems that solemn and marvellous
cast which suited his genius. This was the only
machinery he could employ with propriety ; because
it was the only intervention of supernatural beings
which agreed with the common belief of the country.
It was happy ; because it did not interfere in the least
with the proper display of human characters and ac-
tions ; because it had less of the incredible than most
other kinds of poetical machinery ; and because it
served to diversify the scene, and to heighten the sub-
124 CRITICAL DISSERTATION
ject 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 Fin gal, it may be proper to make some observa-
lions on it, independent of its subserviency to epic com-
position. It turns, for the most part, on the appear-
ances 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 fee-
i !o, 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
ill this life. They ride on the wind ; they bend their
airy bows ; and pursue deer formed of clouds. The
ghosts of departed bards continue to sing. The ghosts
of departed heroes frequent the fields of their former
fame. " They rest together in their caves, and talk
of mortal men. Their songs are of other worlds.
They come sometimes to the ear of rest, and raise their
feeble voice." All this presents to us much the same
set of ideas concerning spirits, as we find in the eleventh
book of the Odyssey, where Ulysses visits the regions
of the dead ; and in the twenty-third book of the Iliad,
the ghost of Patroclus, after appearing to Achilles, van-
ishes precisely like one of Ossian's, emitting a shrill,
feeble cry, and melting away like smoke.
But though Homer's and Ossian's ideas concerning
ghosts were of the same nature, we cannot but observe,
that Ossian's ghosts are drawn with much stronger and
livelier colors than those of Homer. Ossian describes
ghosts with all the particularity of one who had seen
and conversed with them, and whose imagination was
full of the impression they had left upon it. He calls
up those awful and tremendous ideas which the
ON THE POEMS OF ObiSIAN. 125
Simulacra modis pallentia miris
are fitted to raise in the human mind ; and which, in
Shakspeare's style, " harrow up the soul." Crugal's
ghost, in particular, in the beginning of the second
book of Fingal, may vie with any appearance of this
kind, described by any epic or tragic poet whatever.
Most poets would have contented themselves with tell-
ing us, that he resembled, in every particular, the liv-
ing Crugal ; that his form and dress were the same,
only his face more pale and sad ; and that he bore the
mark of the wound by %hich he fell. But Ossian sets
before our eyes a spirit from the invisible world, dis-
tinguished by all those features which a strong, aston-
ished imagination would give to a ghost. " A dark-
red stream of fire comes down from the hill. Crugal
sat upon the beam ; he that lately fell by the hand of
Swaran, striving in the battle of heroes. His face is
like the beam of the setting moon. His robes are of
the cloud of the hill. His eyes are like two decaying
flames. Dark is the wound of his breast. — The stars
dim twinkled through his form ; and his voice was
like the sound of a distant stream." The circum-
stance of the stars being beheld " dim twinkling
through his form," is wonderfully picturesque, and
conveys the most lively impression of his thin and sha-
dowy substance. The attitude in which he is afterward
placed, and the speech put into his mouth, are full of
that solegnn and awful sublimity, which suits the sub-
ject. " Dim, and in tears he stood, and he stretched
his pale hand over the hero. Faintly he raised his
feeble voice, like the gale of the reedy Lego. — My
ghost, O Connal ! is on my native hills ; but my corse
is on the sands of Ulla. Thou shalt never talk with
Crugal, or find his lone steps in the heath. I am light
as the blast of Cromla ; and I move like the shadow
of ipist. Connal, son of Colgar ! I see the dark cloud
126 CRITICAL DISSERTATION
of death ; it hovers over the plains of Lena. The sons
of green Erin shall fall. Remove from the field of
ghosts. — Like the darkened moon, he retired in the
midst of the whistling blast."
Several other appearances of spirits might be point-
ed 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 occa-
sion. " Oscar slowly ascends the hill. The meteors
of night set on the heath before him. A distant tor-
rent faintly roars. Unfrequ^t blasts rush through
aged oaks. The half-enlightened moon sinks dim and
red behind her hill. Feeble voices are heard on the
heath. Oscar drew his sword — ." Nothing can pre-
pare the fancy more happily for the awful scene that
is to follow. " Trentnor came from his hill at the
voice of his mighty son. A cloud, like the steed of
the stranger, supported his airy limbs. His robe is
of the mist of Lano, that brings death to the people.
His sword is a green meteor, half extinguished. His
face is without form, and dark. He sighed thrice over
the hero ; and thrice the winds of the night roared
around. Many were his words to Oscar. — He slowly
vanished, like a mist that melts on the sunny hill."
To appearances of this kind, we can find no parallel
among the Greek or Roman poets. They bring to
mind that noble description in the book of Job : " In
thoughts from the vision of the night, when d^ep sleep
falleth on men, fear came upon me, and trembhng;
which made all my bones to shake. Then a spiril
passed before my face : the hair of my flesh stood up
It stood still : but I could not discern the form thereof.
All 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
OIx THE i'OEMS OF OSSIAN. 127
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-al!en, the spouse
of Ossian, which calls on him to rise and rescue their
son from danger ; and that of Agandecca, which, just
before the last engagement with Swaran, moves Fingal
to pity, by mourning for the approaching destruction
of her kinsman and p<3opIe. In the other poems, ghosts
rometimes appear, when invoked, to foretell futurity ;
irequently, according to the notions of these times,
J hey come as fcjrerunners of misfortune or death, to
I hose whom they visit ; sometimes they inform their
I fiends 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 show their dim and distant forms. Comala is half
unseen on her meteor ; and Ilidallan is sullen and
dim." — " The awful faces of other times looked from
(he clouds of Crona." — " Fercuth ! I saw the ghost of
night. Silent he stood on that bank ; his robe of mist
tiew on the wind. I could behold his tears. An aged
man he seemed, and full of thought."
The ghosts of sti'angers 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
bad formerly known is introduced, the propriety of the
hving character is still preserved. This is remarkable
in the appearance of Calmar's ghost, in the poem enti-
tled, The death of Cuthullin. He seems to forebode
CuthuUin's death, and to beckon him to his cave
CnthuUin reproaches him fjr suppofdng that he couW
128 C f; 1 TIC A L DU^.bKKTA TION
be intimid'dtecl by such prognoolics. •' Why dost thou
bend thy dark eyes on me, ghost of the car- borne
Calmar ? Wouldst thou frighten me, O Matha's son !
from the battles of Cormac ? Thy hand was not feeble
in war ; neither was thy voice for peace. How art
thou changed, chief of Lara ! if thou now dost advise
to Hy ! Retire thou to thy cave : thou art not Calmar's
ghost ; he delighted in battle ; and his arm was like
the thunder of heaven." Cahnar makes no return to
this seeming reproach : but " he i-etired in his blast
with joy ; for he had heard the voice of his })raise.'^
This is precisely the ghost of Achilles in Homer ; who,
notv/ithstanding all the dissatisfaction he expresses
with his state in the region of the dead, as soon as he
had heard his son Ncoptolemus praised for his gallant
behavior, strode away with silent jo}' to rejoin the rest
of the shades.
It is a great advantage of Ossian's n)ytho]ogy, 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 natm'c ; for it is founded on v/hat
has been the popular belief, in all ages and countries,
and under all forms of religion, concerning the appear-
ances of departed spirits. Homer's machinery is al-
ways lively and amusing ; but far from being always
supported with proper dignity. The indecent squabbles
among his gods surely do no honor to epic poetry.
Whereas Ossian's machinery has dignity upon all oc-
casions. It is indeed a dignity of the dark and awfu)
kind ; but this is proper ; because coincident with the
strain and spirit of the poetry. A light and gay my-
thology, like Homer's, would have been perfectly un-
suitable to the subjects on which Ossian's genius was
employed. But though his machinery be always sol.
ON TH?: POEMS OF OSSIAN. 129
emn, 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 ho
sometimes introduces, of the spirits of tbo hill. These
are gentle spirits : descending on sunbeams, fair mov-
ing 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
livijig 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 pleas-
ant were they to me."
Besides ghosts, or the spirits of departed men, we
find in Ossian some instances of other kinds of machin-
ery. Spirits of a superior nature to ghosts are some-
times alluded to, which have power to embroil the
deep ; to call forth winds and storms, and pour them
on the land of the stranger ; to overturn forests, and
to send death among the people. We have prodigies
too ; a shower of blood ; and when some disaster is
befalling at a distance, the sound of death is heard on
the strings of Ossian's harp : all perfectly consonant,
not only to the peculiar ideas of northern nations, but
to the general current of a superstitious imagination in
all countries. The description of Fingal's airy hall,
in the poem called Errathon, and of the ascent of Mal-
vina into it, deserves particular notice, as remarkably
noble and magnificent. But, above all, the engage-
ment of Fingal with the spirit of Loda, in Carric-thura,
cannot be mentioned without admiration. I forbear
transcribing the passage, as it must have drawn the
attention of every one who has read the works of Os-
sian. The undaunted courage of Fingal, opposed to
all the terrors of the Scandinavian god ; the appear-
130 CRITICAL DISSERTATION
ance and the speech of that awful spirit ; the wound
which he receives, and the shriek which he sends forth,
" as, rolled into himself, he rose upon the wind ;" are
full of the most amazing and terrible majesty. I know
no passage more sublime in the writings of any unin-
spired author. The fiction is calculated to aggrandize
the hero ; which it does to a high degree : nor is it so
unnatural or wild a fiction as might at first be thought.
According to the notions of those times, supernatural
beings were material, and, consequently, vulnerable.
The spirit of Loda was not acknowledged as a deity
by Fingal ; he did not worship at the stone of his
power ; he plainly considered him as the god of his
enemies only ; as a local deity, whose dominion ex-
tended no farther than to the regions where he was
worshipped ; who had, therefore, no title to threaten
him, and no claim to his submission. We know there
are poetical precedents of great authority, for fictions
fully as extravagant; and if Homer be forgiven for
making Diomed attack and wound in battle the gods
whom that chief himself worshipped, Ossian surely is
pardonable for making his hero superior to the god of
a foreign territory.
Notwithstanding the poetical advantages which I
have ascribed to Ossian's machinery, I acknowledge it
would have been much more beautiful and perfect had
the author discovered some knowledge of a Supreme
Being. Although his silence on this head has been
accounted for by the learned and ingenious translator
in a very probable manner, yet still it must be held a
considerable disadvantage to the poetry. For the most
august and lofty ideas that can embellish poetry are
derived from the belief of a divine administration of
the universe ; and hence the invocation of a Supreme
Being, or at least of some superior powers, who are
conceived as presiding over human affairs, the solem-
OiN THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 131
nities of religious worship, prayers preferred, and as-
sistance implored on critical occasions, ^pear 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 thay would have
made under the management of such a genius as his ;
and how finely they would have been adapted to many
situations which occur in his works.
After so particular an examination of Fingal, it were
needless to enter into as full a discussion of the conduct
of Temora, the other epic poem. Many of the same
observations, especially with regard to the great char-
acteristics 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 Ire-
land ; and the action is of a posterior date. The sub-
ject is, an expedition of the hero to dethrone and pun-
ish a bloody usurper, and to restore the possession of
the kingdom to the posterity of the lawful prince : an
undertaking worthy of the justice and heroism of the
great Fingal. The action is one, and complete. The
poem opens with the descent of Fingal on the coast,
and the consultation held among the chiefs of the ene-
my. 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 (lescribed, which rise jn their importance
above one another ; the success is various, and the
issue for some time doubtful ; till at last, Fingal,
brought into distress, by the wound of his great geneml
Gaul, and the death of his son Fillan, assumes tiie
command himself; and, having slain the Irish king
132 CRITICAL DISSERTATION
in single combat, restores the rightful heir to bis
throne.
Temorft 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 many successful achievements, taking his
leave of battles, and, with all the solemnities of those
times, resigning his spear to his son. The events are
less crowded in Temora than in Fingal ; actions and
characters are more particularly displayed : we are
let into the transactions of both hosts, and informed of
the adventures of the night as well as of the day. The
still, pathetic, and the romantic scenery of several of
the night adventures, so remarkably suited to Ossian's
genius, occasion a fine diversity in the poem ; and are
happily contrasted with the military operations of the
day.
In most of our author's poems, the horrors of war are
softened by intermixed scenes of love and friendship.
In Fingal these are introduced as episodes : in Temora
we have an incident of this nature wrought into the
body of the piece, in the adventure of Cathmor and
Sulmalla. This forms one of the most conspicuous
beauties of that poem. The distress of Sulmalla, dis-
guised and unknown amongst strangers, her tend'er and
anxious concern for the safety of Cathmor, her dream,
and her melting remembrance of the land of her fa-
thers ; Cathmor's emotion when he first discovers her,
his struggles to conceal and suppress his passion, lest
it should unman him in the midst of war, though " his
soul poured forth in secret, when he beheld her fearful
eye," and the last interview between them, when, over-
come by her tenderness, he lets her know he had dis-
ON THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 133
covered her, and confesses his passion ; are all wroun;ht
up with the most exquisite sensibility and delicacy.
Besides the characters which appeared in Fingal,
several new ones are here introduced ; and though, as
they are all the characters of warriors, bravery is the
predominant feature, they are nevertheless diversified
in a sensible and striking manner. Foldath, for 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
tyrant Cairbar, " His stride is haughty ; his red eye
rolls in wrath." In his person and whole deportment
he is contrasted with the mild and wise Hidalla, anoth-
er leader of the same army, on whose humanity and
gentleness he looks with great contempt. He profes-
sedly delights in strife and blood. He insults over the
fallen. He is imperious in his counsels, and factious
when they are not followed. He is unrelenting in all
his schemes of revenge, even to the length of denying
the funeral song to tlie dead ; which, from the injury
thereby done to their ghosts, was in those days con-
sidered as the greatest barbarity. Fierce to the last,
he comforts himself in his dying moments with think-
ing that his ghost shall often leave its blast to rejoice
over the graves of those he had -slain. Yet Ossian,
ever prone to the patlietic, has contrived to throw into
his account of the death, even of this man, some tender
circumstances, by the moving description of his daugh-
ter 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
strangers ; open to every generous sentiment, and to
every soft and compassionate feeling. He is so annia-
12
134 CRITICAL DISSERTATION
ble as to divide the reader's attachment between him
and the hero of the poem ; though our author has art-
fully managed it so as to make Cathmor himself indi-
rectly acknowledge Fingal's superiority, and to appear
somewliat 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, CuthuUin, Cathmor, and Fingal, he has, how-
ever, sensibly distinguished each of their characters ;
CuthuUin is particularly honorable ; Cathmor particu-
larly amiable ; Fingal wise and great, retaining an
ascendant peculiar to himself in whatever light he is
viewed.
But the favorite figure in Temora, and the one most
highly finished, is Fillan. His character is of that
sort for which Ossian shows a particular fondness ; an
eager, fervent, young warrior, fired with all the impa-
tient enthusiasm for military glory peculiar to that
time of life. He had sketched this in the description
of his own son Oscar ; but as he has extended it more
fully in Fillan, and as the character is so consonant to
the epic strain, though, as far as I remember, nut
placed in such a conspicuous light by any other epic
poet, it may be worth while to attend a little to Ossian's
management of it in this instance.
Fillan was the youngest of all the sons of Fingal ;
younger, it is plain, than his nephew Oscar, by whose
fame and great deeds in war we may naturally suppose
his ambition to have been highly stimulated. Withal,
as he is younger, he is described as more rash and
fiery. His first appearance is soon after Oscar'a
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
ON THE rOEMS OF OSSIA.N. 135
of my sword in battle ; but my soul is fiie." He is
with some difficulty restrained by Ossian from going
to attack the enemy ; and complains to him, that his
father had never allowed him any opportunity of sig-
nalizing his valor. " The king hath not remarked my
swoi'd ; 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
ais claim to this honor, Fillan is presented in the fol-
lowing 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 dis-
tant 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 descrip-
tion of Fingal's paternal emotion on this occasion.
" Nor is he unseen of Fingal. Sidelong he beheld his
son. He beheld him with bursting joy. He hid the
big tear with his locks, and turned amidst his crowded
soul." The command, for that day, being given to
Gaul, Fillan rushes amidst the thickest of the foe, saves
Gaul's life, who is wounded by a random arrow, and
distinguishes himself so in battle, that '• the days of old
return on Fingal's mind, as he beholds the renown of
his son. As the sun rejoices from the cloud, over the
tree his beams have raised, whilst it shakes its lonely
head on the heath, so joyful is the king over Fillan."
Sedate, however, and wise, he mixes the praise which
he bestows on him with some reprehension of his rash-
ness. " My son, I saw thy deeds, and my soul was
glad. Thou art brave, son of Clatho, but headlong in
the strife. So did not Fingal advance, though he
never feared a foe. Let thy people be a ridge behind
136 CRITICAL DISSERTATION
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
oci3asion is full of noble sentiment ; and, where he re-
commends his son to their care, extremely touching.
" A young beam is before you : few are his steps to
war. They are few, but he is valiant ; defend my dark-
haired son. Bring him back with joy ; hereafter he
may stand alone. His form is like his fathers ; his
soul is a flame of their fire." When the battle begins,
the poet puts forth his strength to describe the exploits
of the young hero ; who, at last encountering and kill-
ing with his own hand Foldath, the opposite general,
attains the pinnacle of glory. In what follows, when
the fate of Fillan is drawn near, Ossian, if anywhere,
excels himself. Foldath being slain, and a general
rout begun, there was no resource left to the enemy
but in the great Cathmore himself, who in this extremity
descends from the hill, where, according to the custom
of those princes, he surveyed the battle. Observe
how this critical event is wrought up by the poet.
" Wide-spreading over echoing Lubar, the flight of
Bolga is rolled along. Fillan hung forward on their
steps, and strewed the heath with dead. Fingal 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 iiall ; behold that early beam of thine ! The host
is withered in its course. No farther look — it is dark
— light trembling from the harp, strike, virgins ! strike
the sound." The sudden interruption and suspense of
the narration on Cathmor's rising from his hill, the
THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 137
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 i?, heightened by the immediate
following simile, one of the most magnificent and sub-
lime that is to be met with in any poet, and which, if
'it had been found in Homer, would have been the fre-
quent 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 ? " Shall Fingal rise to
his aid, and take the sword of Luno ? What then
shall become of thy fame, son of white-bosomed Clatho?
Turn not thine eyes from Fingal, daughter of Inistore !
1 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 despatches Ossian in ha.ste to the field,
with this affectionate and delicate injunction : *' Father
of Oscar !" addressing him by a title which on this
occasion has the highest propriety : " Father of Oscar !
lift the spear, defend the young in arms. Butconceal
thy steps from Fillan's eyes. He must not know that
I doubt his steel." Ossian arrived too late. But un-
willing to describe Fillan vanquished, the puet sup->
presses all the circumstances of the combat with Cath-
mor : and onlv shows us the dvins hero. We «ee him
138 CRITICAL DISSERTATION
animated to the end with the same martial and ardent
spirit ; breathing his last in bitter regret for being so
early cut off from the field of glory. " Ossian, lay
me in that hollow rock. Raise no stone above me,
lest one should ask about my fame. I am fallen in the
first of my fields ; fallen without renown. Let thy
voice alone send joy to my flying soul. Why should
the bard know where dwells the early-fallen Fillan ?"
He who, after tracing the circumstances of this story,
shall deny that our bard is possessed of high sentiment
and high art, must be strangely prejudiced indeed.
Let him read the story of Pallas in Virgil, which is of
a similar kind ; and after all the praise he may justly
bestow on the elegant and finished description of that
amiable author, let him say which of the two poets
unfolds most of the human soul. I waive insisting
on any more of the particulars in Temora ; as my
aim is rather to lead the reader into the genius and
spirit of Ossian's poetry, than to dwell on all his
beauties.
The judgment and art discovered in conducting
works of such length as Fingal and Temora, distin.
guish them from the other poems in this collection.
The smaller pieces, however, contain particul:ir beau-
ties, no less eminent. They are historical poems,
generally of the elegiac kind ; and plainly discover
themselves to be the work of the same author. Oiif;
consistent face of manners is everywhere presented
to us ; one spirit of poetry reigns ; the nmstcrly hand
of Ossian appears throughout ; the same rapid and
animated style ; the same strong coloring of imagina-
tion, and the same glowing sensibility of heart. Be-
sides the unity which belongs to the compositions of
one man, there is moreover a certain unity of subject,
which very happily connects all these poems. They
form the poetical history of the nge of Fingal. The
ON THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 139
same race of heroes whom we had met with in the
greater poems, Cuthulliii, Oscar, Connar, and Gaul,
return again upon the stage ; and Fingal himself is
always the principal figure, presented on every occa-
sion, with equal magnificence, nay, rising upon us to
the last. The circumstances of Ossian's old age and
blindness, his surviving all his friends, and his relating
their great exploits to Malvina, the spouse or mistress
of his beloved son Oscar, furnish the finest poetical
situations that fancy could devise for that tender pa-
thetic which reigns in Ossian's poetry.
On each of these poems there might be room for
separate observations, with regard to the conduct and
dispositions of the incidents, as well as to the beauty
of the descriptions and sentiments. Cnrthon is a regu-
lar and highhf finished piece. Tiie main story is very
properly introduced by Clessamore's relation of the
adventure of his youth ; and this introduction is finely
heightened by Fingal's song of mourning over Moina ;
in \', hich Ossian, ever fond of doing honor to his father,
has contrived to distinguish him lor being an eminent
poet, as well as warrior. Fingal's song upon this oc-
casion, when " his thousand bards leaned forwards from
• their seats, to hear the voice of the king," is inferior to
no passage in the whole book : and with great judg-
ment put in his mouth, as the seriousness, no less than
the sublimity of the strain, is peculiarly suited to the
hero's character. In Darthula are assembled almost
all the tender images that can touch the heart of man ,
friendship, love, the aftections of parents, sons, and
brothers, the distress of the aged, and the unavailing
bravery of the young. The beautiful address to the
moon, with which the poem opens, and the transitioR
from the^ice to the subject, most happily prepare the
mind for that train of affecting events that is to follow.
The story is regrular, dramatic, interesting to the last.
140 CRITICAL DISSERTATION
He who can read it without emotion may congratulate
himself, if he pleases, upon being completely armed
against sympathetic sorrow. As Fingal had no occa-
sion of appearing in the action of this poem, Ossian
makes a very artful transition from his narration, to
what was passing in the halls of Selma. The sound
heard there on the strings of his harp, the concern
which Fingal shows on hearing it, and the invocation
of the ghosts of their fathers, to receive the heroes fall-
ing in a distant land, are introduced with great beauty
of imagination to increase the solemnity, and to diver-
sify the scenery of the poem.
Carric-thura is full of the most sublime dignity ; and
has this advantage, of being more cheerful in the sub-
ject, and more happy in the catastrophe, than most of
the other poems : though tempered at the same -time
with episodes in that strain of tender melancholy which
seems to have been the great delight of Ossian and tiie
bards of his age. Lathmon is peculiarly distingui..hcd
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 Lalhmon,
on the other, to overpower by numbers the two young
warriors, as to recall into one's mind the manners of
chivalry; some resemblance to which may perhaps be
suggested by other incidents in this collection of poems.
Chivalry, however, took rise in an age and country too
remote from those of Ossian, to admit the suspicion
that the one could have borrowed any thing from the
other. So far as chivalry had any real existence, the
same military enthusiasm which gave birth to it in the
feudal times, might, in the days of Ossian, that is, in
the infancy of a rising state, through the operation of
the same cause, very natui-ally produce effecte of the
same kind on the minds and manners of men. So far
as chivalry was an ideal system, existing only in ro-
ON THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 141
mance, 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
fownd among them, as much, at least, as among the
Troubadors, 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, con-
cern women who follow their lovers to war disguised
in the armor of men ; and these are so managed as
to produce, in the discovery, several of the most inter-
esting situations ; one beautiful instance of which may
be seen in Carric-thura, and another in Calthon and
Colmal.
Oithona presents a situation of a different nature.
In the absence of her lover Gaul, she had been carried
ofl'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 behavior of Oithona on that occasion,
are described with such tender and exquisite propriety,
as does the greatest honor both to the heart and to the
delicacy of our author; and would have been admired
in any poet of the most refined age. The conduct of
Croma must strike evei^y reader as remarkably judi-
cious 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 flutter-
ing of her soul ;" and in a most moving lamentation
142 CRITICAL DISSERTATION
addressed to her beloved Oscar, she sings her own
dealh-song. Nothing could be calculated with more
art to sooth and comfort her than the story which Os-
sian relates. In the young and brave Fovargorrto,
another Oscar is introduced : his praises are sung ;
and the happiness is set before her of those who die in
their youth "when their renown is around them ; before
the feeble behold them in the hall, and smile at their
trembling haiids."
But nowhere does Ossian's genius appear to greater
advantage, than in Berrathon, which is reckoned the
conclusion of his songs, ' The last sound of the voice
ofCona.'
Qualis olor noto positunis littore vitam,
Ingemit, et mcestis mulcens concentibus auras
Praesago quaeritur venientia I'unera 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 ; " 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
drops of heaven ; the time of my departure is near,
and the blast that shall scatter my leaves." Malvina's
death is hinted to him in the most delicate manner by
the son of Alpin. His lamentation over her, her apo-
theosis, or ascent to the habitation of heroes, and the
introduction to the story which follows from the men
tion which Ossian supposes the father of Malvina to
make of him in the hall of Fingal, are all in the higher
spirit of poetry. " And dost thou remember Ossian, O
Toscar, son of Conloch 1 The battles of our youth
ON THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 143
were many; our swords went together to the field."
Nothing could be more proper than to end his songs
with recording an exploit of the father of that Malvina,
of whom his heart was now so full ; and who, from first
to last, had been such a favorite object throughout all
his poems.
The scene of most of Ossian's poems is laid in Scot-
land, or in the coast of Ireland, opposite to the territo-
ries of Fingal. When the scene is in Ireland, we per-
ceive no change of manners from those of Ossian's
native country. For as Ireland was undoubtedly peo-
pled with Celtic tribes, the language, customs, and re-
ligion 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 inter-
course. But when the poet relates the expeditions of
any of his heroes to the Scandinavian coast, or to the
islands of Orkney, which were then part of the Scan-
dinavian territory, as he does in Carric-thura, Sul-malla
of Lumon, and Cathloda, the case is quite altered.
Those countries were inhabited by nations of the Teu-
tonic descent, who, in their manners and rehgious rites,
differed widely from the Celtaj ; and it is curious and
remarkable, to find this difference clearly pointed out
in the poems of Ossian. His descriptions bear the
native marks of one who was present in the expeditions
which he relates, and who describes what he had seen
with his own eyes. No sooner are we carried to.
Lochlin, or the klands of Inistore, than we perceive
we are in a foreign region. New objects begin to ap-
pear. We meet everywhere with the stones and cir-
cles of Loda, that is, Odin, the great Scandinavian
deity. We meet with the divinations and enchant-
ments for which it is well known those northern na-
tions were early famous. "There, mixed with the
144 CEITICAL nSSERTATlON
murmur of waters, rose the voice of aged men, who
called the forms of night to aid them in their war ;"
whilst the Caledonian chiefs^ who assisted them, are
described as standing at a distance, heedless of their
rites. That ferocity of manners which distinguished
those nations, also becomes conspicuous. In the com-
bats of their chiefs there is a peculiar savageness ; even
their women are bloody and fierce. The spirit, and
the very ideas of Regner Lodbrog, that northern scal-
der, 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 obser-
vations on his manner of writing, under the general
lieads 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 object is pre-
sented to us indistinctly, and as through a cloud. But
a true poet makes us imagine that we see it before our
eyes ; he catches the distinguishing features ; he gives
it the colors of life and reality ; he places it in such a
light that a painter could copy after him. This happy-
talent is chiefly owing to a lively imagination, which
first receives a strong impression of the object ; and
then, by a proper selection of capital picturesque cir-
cumstances employed in describing it, transmits that
impression in its full force to the imaginations of others.
That Ossian possesses this descriptive power in a high
degree, we have a clear proof, from the effect which
OiN THE rOEx^lS OF OSSIAN. 145
his descriptions produce upon the imaginations of those
who read him with any degree of attention, or taste.
Few poets are more interesting. We contract an inti-
mate acquaintance with his principal heroes. The
characters, the manners, the face of the country, be-
come 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." Nothing also can be
more natural and lively than the manner in which
Carthon afterward describes how the conflagration of
his city affected him when a child : " Have I not seen
the fallen Balclutha ? And shall I feast with Comhal's
son ? Comhal ! who threw his fire in the midst of my
father's hall ! I was young, and knew not the cause
why the virgins wept. The columns of smoke pleased
mine eye, when they arose above my wajls : I often
looked back with gladness, when my friends fled above
the hill. But when the years of my youth came on, I
belield the moss of my fallen walls. My sigh arose
with the morning ; and my tears descended with night.
13
146 CRITICAL DISSERTATION
Shall I not fight, I said to my soul, against the children
of my foes ? And 1 will fight, O bard ! I feel the
strength of my soul." In the same poem, the assem-
bling of the chiefs round Fingal, who had been warned
of some impending danger by the appearance of a
prodigy, is described with so many picturesque circum-
stances, that one imagines himself present in the as-
sembly. " 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 j
and half assumed his spear."
It has been objected to Ossian, that his descriptions
of military actions are imperfect, and much less diver-
sified by the circumstances than those of Homer. This
is in some measure true. The amazing fertility of
Homer's invention, is nowhere so much displayed as
In the incidents of his battles, and in the little history
pieces he gives of the persons slain. Nor, indeed, with
regard to the talent of description, can too much be
said in praise of Homer. Every thing is alive in his
writings. The colors with which he paints are those
of nature. But Ossian's genius was of a different
kind from Homer's. It led him to hurry towards grand
objects, rather than to amuse himself with particulars
of less importance. He could dwell on the death of a
favorite hero ; but that of a private man seldom stopped
his rapid course. Homer's genius was more compre-
hensive than Ossian's. It included a wider circle of
ON THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 147
objects ; and could work up any incident into descrip-
tion. Ossian's was more limited ; but the region
within which it chiefly exerted itself was the highest
of all, the region of the pathetic and the sublime.
We must not imagine, however, that Ossian's battles
consist only of general indistinct description. Such
beautiful incidents are sometimes introduced, and the
circumstances of the persons slain so much diversified,
as show that he could have embellished his military
scenes with an abundant variety of particulars, if his
genius had led him to dwell upon them. " One man
is stretched in the dust of his native land; he fell,
where often he had spread the feast, and often raised
the voice of the harp," The maid of Inistoro is intro-
duced 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 pour-
ing 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 climbling
up a tree to escape from his foe, is pierced by his spear
from behind : shrieking, panting he fell; whilst moss
and withered branches pursue his fall, and strew the
blue arms of Gaul. Never was a finer picture drawn
of the ardor of two youthful warriors than the follow-
ing : " I saw Gaul in his armor, and my soul was
mixed with his ; for the fire of the battle was in his
eyes ; he looked to the foe with joy. We spoke the
words of friendship in secret ; and the lightning of our
swords poured together. We drew them behind the
wood, and tried the strength of our arms on the empty
air."
Ossian is always concise in his descriptions, whicn
adds m^xh to their beauty and force. For it is a greai
mistake to imagine, that a crowd of particulars, or a
148 CRITICAL DISSERTATION
very full and extended style, is of advantage to descrip-
tion. On the contrary, such a diffuse manner for the
most part weakens it. Any one redundant circumstance
is a nuisance. It encumbers and loads the fancy, and
renders the main image indistinct. " Obstat," as
Quintilian says with regard to style, " quicquid non ad-
juvat." To be concise in description,, is one thing:
and to be general, is another. No description that rests
in generals can possibly be good ; it can convey no
lively idea ; for it is of particulars only that we have a
distinct conception. But, at the same time, no strong
imagination dwells long upon any one particular ; or
heaps together a mass of trivial ones. By the happ)/
choice of some one, or of a fev/ th-at arc the most
striking, it presents the image more complete, shows-
us more at one glance than a feeble imagination is able
to do, by turning its object round and round into a;
variety of lights. Tacitus is of all prose v/riters the
most concise. He has even a degree of abruptness
resembling our author : yet no writer is more eminent
for lively description. When Fingal, after having
conquered the haughty Swaran, proposes to dismiss
him with honor: " Raise to-morrov/ thy white sails to
the wind, thou brother of Agandcccal" 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 de-
spises danger." When Oscar, left alone, was sur-
rounded 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
ON THE POiiMS OF OSSIAN. 149
the midst of danger, seems to increase in his appear-
ance, and becomes more formidable every moment,
like the sudden rising of the torrent hemmed in by the
Falley. And a whole crowd of ideas, concerning the
circumstances of domestic sorrow, occasioned by a
young v/arrior's first going tbrth 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, v/ithout any disadvantage, be
amplified and prolonged. Force is not the predomi-
nant quality expected in these. The description may
be weakened by being diffuse, yet, notwithstanding,
rnay be beautiful still ; Avliereas, with respect to grand,
solemn, and pathetic subjects, which are Ossian's chief
field, the case is very different. In these, energy is
above all things required. The imagination must be
seized at once, or not at all; and is far more deeply
impressed by one strong and ardent image, than by
the anxious minuteness of labored illustration.
But Ossian's genius, though chiefly turned towards
the sublime and pathetic, was not confined to it. In
subjects also of grace and delicacy, he discovers the
hand of a master. Take for an example the following
elegant description of Agandecca, wherein the tender-
ness of Tibullus seems united with the majesty of
Virgil. "The daughter of the snow overheard, and
left the hall of her secret sigh. She came in all her
beauty ; like the moon from the cloud of the east.
Loveliness was around her as light. Her steps were
like the music of songs. She saw the youth and loved
him. He was the stolen sigh of her soul. Her blue
eyes rolled on him in secret; and she blest the chief
of Morven." Several other instances might be pro-
18+
150 CRITICAL DISSERTATION
duced of the feelings of love and friendship, painted
by our author with a most natural and happy deli-
cacy.
The simplicity of Ossian's manner adds great beauty
to his descriptions, and indeed to his whole poetry.
We meet with no affected ornaments ; no forced re-
finement ; no marks either in style or thought of a
.studied endeavor to shine or sparkle. Ossian appears
everywhere to be prompted by his feelings ; and to
speak from the abundance of his heart. I remember
no more than one instance of what may be called a
quaint thought in this whole collectiou of his works.
It is in the first book of Fingal, where, from the tombs
of two lovers, two lonely yews arc mentioned to have
sprung, "whose branches wished to meet on high."
This sympathy of the trees with the lovers, may be
reckoned to border on an Italian conceit ; and it is
somewhat curious to find this single instance of that
sort of wit in our Celtic poetry.
" The joy of grief" is one of Ossian^s remarkable
expressions, several times repeated. If any one shall
think that it needs to be justified by a precedent, he
may find it twice used by Homer : in the Iliad, when
Achilles is visited by the ghost of Patroclus; and in
the Odyssey, when Ulysses meets his mother in the
shades. On both these occasions, the heroes, melted
with tenderness, lament their not having it in their
power to throw their arms round the ghost, " that we
might," say they, "in mutal embrace, enjoy the delight
of grief."
KpvEpolo TorapnioixtaOa ydoto.
But, in truth, the expression stands in need of no
defence from authority ; for it is a natural and just ex-
pression ; and conveys a clear idea of that gratification
which a virtuous heart often feels in the indulgence of
01 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 151
a tender melaiK.holy. Ossian makes a very proper
distinction betwe en 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 sor-
row wastes the mournful, O daughter of Toscar, and
their days are few." To '-give the joy of grief," gen-
erally signifies, to raise the strain of soft and grave
music; and finely characterizes the taste of Ossian's
age and count ly. In those days, when the songs of
bards were the great delight of heroes, the tragic muse
was held in chief honor : gallant actions and virtuous
suficrings, were the chosen theme ; preferably to that
light and trifling strain of poetry and music, which
promotes liglit 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 victo-
ry ; " strike the harp in my hall, and let Fingal hear
the song. Pleasant is the joy of grief! It is like the
shov/er of spring, when it softens the branch of the
oak ; and the young leaf lifts its green head. Sing on,
O bards ! To-morrov/ 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-
m'lrkably 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
152 CRITICAL DISSERTATION
Ossian, and are commooly among the favorite passages
of all poets, it may be cj-pccted that I should be some-
what particular in my rci.iarks upon them.
A poetical simile always, supposes two objects brought
together, between which Cacvo is some near relation or
connection in tlie fancy. What that relation ought to
be, cannot be precisely de%i£d. For various, almost
numberless, are the analogic 9 formed among objects,
by a sprightly imagination. The relation of actual
similitude, or likeness of app-pMunco, is far from being
the only foundation of poetlcil comparison. Some-
times a resemblance in the efllct produced by two ob*
jects, is made the coimecting priiiciple : sometimes a
resemblance in one distinguishing proj^erty or circum-
stance. Very often two objects a':e brought together
in a simile, though they resemblc> ovie another, strictly
speaking, in nothing, only becau;'e ihey raise in the
mind a train of similar, and what lirv} bo called con-
cordant, ideas ; so that the rememb;arce of the onCj
when recalled, serves to quicken and bel^zh-ea the im-
pression made by the other. Thus, to give ai: instance
from our poet, the pleasure with which an cM man
looks back on the exploits of tiis youth, has cer'ainly
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? My soul is full of othei
times ; the joy of my youth returns. Thus the sur
appears in the west, after the steps of his brightnes?
have moved behind a storm. The green hills lift theii
dewy heads. Tiie 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 th«
ON THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 153
old maivs joy and elation of lieart, by displaying a
scene which produces in every spectator a correspond-
ing train of pleasing emotions ; the declining sun look-
ing forth in his brightness after a storm ; the cheerful
face of all nature ; and the still life finely animated by
the circumstance of the aged hero, with his staff and
his gray locks : a circumstance both extremely pic-
turesque in itself, and peculiarly suited to the main
object of the comparison. Such analogies and associ-
ations of ideas as these, are highly pleasing to the fan-
cy. 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 princi-
pally exercised in distinguishing objects, and remarking
the differences among those which seem alike, so the
highest amusement of the imagination is to trace like-
nesr^cs and agreements among those which seem differ-
ent.
The principal rules which respect poetical compari-
sons are, that they be introduced on proper occasions,
v/hen 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,
154 CRITICAL DISSERTATIO?f
in order to judge of the propriety of poetical imageiy,
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 be-
trays a poet, copying not from nature, but from other
writers. Hence so many lions, and tigers, and eagles,
and serpents, which we meet with in the similes of
modern poets ; as if these animals had acquired some
right to a place in poetical comparisons for ever, be-
cause employed by ancient authors. They employed
them with propriety, as objects generally known in
their country, but they are absurdly used for illustra-
tion by us, who know ihem only at second hand, or by
description. To most readers of modern poetry, it
were more to the purpose to describe lions or tigers
by similes taken from men, than to compare men to
lions. Ossian is very correct in this particular. His
imagery is, without exception, copied from that face
of nature which he saw before his eyes ; and by con-
sequence may be expected to be lively. We meet
with no Grecian or Italian scenery ; but with the
mists and clouds, and storms, of a northern mountain-
ous 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 or-
naments ; 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 re-
sembling object, and instantly returns to his former
track. Homer's similes include a wider range of ob-
jects I but, in return, Ossian's are, without exception,
ON THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 165
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 thun-
der, 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 ;
the<5e form the circle within which Ossian's compari-
sons generally run. Some, not many, are taken from
birds and beasts : as eagles, sea-fowl, the horse, the
deer, and the mountain bee ; and a very few from
such operations of art as were then known. Homer
has diversified his imagery, by many more allusions to
the animal world ; to lions, bulls, goats, herds of cattle,
serpents, insects ; and to various occupations of rural
and pastoral life. Ossian's defect in this article, is
plainly owing to the desert, uncultivated state of his
country, which suggested to him few images beyond
natural inanimate objects, in their rudest form. The
birds and animals of the country were probably not
numerous ; and his acquaintance with them was slen-
der, 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 resem-
bling objects ; especially to a poet like Ossian, who
wrote from the immediate impulse of poetical enthusi-
asm, and without much preparation of study or labor.
Fertile as Homer's imagination is acknowledged to be,
who does not know how often his lions, and bulls, and
flocks of sheep, recur with little or no variation ; nay,
sometimes, in the very same words ? The objection
made to Ossian is, however, founded, in a great meas-
ure, upon a mistake. It has been supposed by inat-
156 CRITICAL DISSERTATION
tentive readers, that wherever the moon, the cloud, or
the thunder, returns in a simile, it is the same simile,
and the same moon, or cloud, or thunder, which they
had met with a few pages before. Whereas very
often the similes are widely different. The object,
from whence they are taken, is indeed in substance
the same ; but the image is new ,• for the appearance
of the object is changed ; it is presented to the fancy
in another attitude : and clothed with new circumstan-
ces, 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 appear-
ances with which he was acquainted, as to make them
correspond to a great many different objects.
Let us take for one instance the moon, v*^hich is very
frequently introduced in his comparisons -, as in north-
ern climates, where the nights are long, the moon is a
greater object of attention than in the climate of Ho-
mer ; and let us view how much our poet has diversi-
fied 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,
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 ir.
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
ON THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. lli?
like the full moon of heaven, when the clouds vanish
away, and leave her calm and broad in the midst of the
sky." Yenvela is " bright as the moon when it. trem-
bles o'er the western wave ;" but the soul of the guilty
Uthal is " dark as the troubled face of the moon, when
it foretells the storm." And by a very fanciful and
uncommon allusion, it is said of Cormac, who was to
die in his early years, " Nor long shalt thou lift the
spear, mildly-shining beam of youth ! Death stands
dim behind thee, like the darkened half of the moon
behind its growing light."
Another instance of the same nature may be takeji
from mist, which, as being a very familiar appearance
in the country of Ossian, he applies to a variety of pur-
poses, and pursues through a great many forms. Some-
times, which one would liardly expect, he employs it
to heighten the appearance of a beautiful object. The
hair of jMorna is " like the mist of Cromla, Vvhen it
curls on the rock, and shines to the beam of the west."
" The song comes with its music to melt and please
the ear. It is like soft mist, that rising from the lake
pours on the silent vale. The green flowers are filled
with dew. The sun returns in its strength, and the
mist is gone." But, for the most part, mist is employ-
ed as a similitude of some disagreeable or terrible ob-
ject. " The soul of Nathos was sad, like the sun in
the day of mist, when his face is watery and dim." —
'' The darkness of old age comes like the mist of the
desert." The face of a ghost is " pale as the mist of
Cromla." — '• The gloom of battle is rolled along as
mist that is poured on the valley, when storms invade
the silent sunshine of heaven." Fame, suddenly de-
parting, is likened to " mist that flies away before the
rustling wind of tlie vale." A ghost, slowly vanishing,
to " mist that melts by degrees on the sunny hill."
Cairbar, after his treacherous assassination of Oscar, is
14
158 CRITICAL DlSiJF.RTATiON
compared to a pestilential fog. " I love a foe likci
Cathmor,'" says Fingai, " his soul is great ; his arm is
strong ; his battles are full of fame. But the little soul
is like a vapor that hovers round the marshy lake. It
never rises on the green hill, lest the winds meet it
there. Its dwelling is in the cave ; and it sends forth
the dart of death." This is a simile highly finished.
But there is another which is still more striking, found-
ed also on mist, in the fourth book of Temora. Two
factious chiefs are contending : Cathmor, the king, in-
terposes, rebukes, and silences them. The poet in-
tends to give us the highest idea of Cathmor's supe-
riority ; 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 to-
wards its reedy pool." These instances may suffi-
ciently show with what richness of imagination Ossian's
comparisons abound, and, at the same time, with what
propriety of judgment they are employed. If his field
was narrow, it must be admitted to have been as well
cultivated as its extent would allow.
As it is usual to judge of poets from a comparison
of their similes more than of other passages, it will,
perhaps, be agreeable to the reader, to see how Homer
and Ossian have conducted some images of the same
kind. This might be shown in many instances. For
as the great objects of nature are common to the poets
of all nations, and make the general storehouse of all
imagery, the groundwork of their comparisons must,
of course, be frequently the same. I shall select only
a few of the most considerable from both poets. Mr.
Pope's translation of Flomer can be of no use to us
here. The parallel is altogether unfair between prose
and the imposing harmony of flowing numbers. It ia
ON THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 159
only by viewing Homer in the simplicity of a prose
translation, that wc can form any comparison between
the two bards.
The shock of two encountering armies, the noise
and the tumult of battle, afford one of the most grand
and awful subjects of description ; on which all epic
poets have exerted their strength. Let us first hear
Homer. The following description is a favorite one,
for we fmd 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 uni-
versal tumult rose. There were mingled the triumph-
ant shouts and the dying groans of the victors and the
vanquished. The earth streamed with blood. As when
winter torrents, rushing from the mountciins, pour into
a narrow valley their violent waters. They issue from
a thousand springs, and mix in the hollowed channel.
Tiie distant shepherd hears on the mountain their roar
from afar. Such was the terror and the shout of the
engaging armies." In another passage, the poet,
much in the manner of Ossian, heaps simile on simile, •
to express the vastness of the idea with which his ima-
gination seems to labor. " With a mighty shout the
hosts engage. Not so loud roars the wave of ocean,
when driven against the shore by the whole force of
the boisterous north ; not so loud in the woods of the
mountain, the noise of the flame, when rising in its
fury to consume the forest ; not so loud the wind
among the lofty oaks, when the wrath of the storm
rages ; as was the clamor of the Greeks and Trojans,
when, roaring terrible, they rushed against each
other." t
* niad, iv. 46 ; and Iliad, viii. 60. t Iliad, xiv. 393.
160 CRITICAL DISSERTATION
To these descriptions and similes, we may oppose
the following from Ossian, and leave the reader to
judge between them. He will find images of the same
kind employed ; commonly less extended ; but thrown
forth with a glowing rapidity which characterizes our
poet. " As autumn's dark storms pour from two 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 bat-
tle, meet Lochlin 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 vuW 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
Inisfail met Swaran. Death raises all his voices
around, and mixes with the sound of shields. — The
field echoes from v/ing to wing, as a hundred hammers
that rise by turns on the red son of the furnace." — ■
'' As a hundred winds on Morven ; as the streams of
a hundred hills ; as clouds fly successive over heaven ;
or as the dark ocean assaults the shore of the desert ;
so roaring, so vast, so lerrible, 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 ter
ror of battle.
Both poets compare the appearance of an army ap*
proaching, to the gathering of dark clouds. " As when
ON THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 161
a shepherd," says Homer, " beholds from the rock a
cloud borne along the sea by the western wind ; black
as pitch it appears from afar sailing over the ocean,
and carrying the dreadful storm. He shrinks at the
sight, and drives his flock into the cave : such, under
the Ajaces, moved on the dark, the thickened phalanx
to the war."* — " They came," says Ossian, "over the
desert like stormy clouds, when the winds roll them
o\er the heath ; their edges are tinged with lightning ;
and the echoing groves foresee the storm." The
edges of the clouds tinged with lightning, is a sublime
idea : but the shepherd and his flock render Homer's
simile more picturesque. This is frequently the dif-
ference between the two poets. Ossian gives no more
than the main image, strong and full : Homer adds
circumstances and appendages, which amuse the fancy
by enlivening the scenery.
Homer compares the regular appearance of an army,
to " clouds that are settled on the mountain-top, in the
day of calmness, when the strength of the north wind
sleeps."! 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 threat-
ened 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
* niad, iv. 275. t Iliad, v. 522.
14*
162 CRITICAL DISSERTATION
joy rose on her mind, like the red path of the lightning
on a stormy cloud." The image also of the gloomy
Cairbar, meditating, in silence, the assassination of
Oscar, until the moment came when his designs were
ripe for execution, is extremely noble and complete in
all its parts. " Cairbar heard their words in silence,
like the cloud of a shower ; it stands dark on Cromla
till the lightning bursts its side. The valley gleams
with red light ; the spirits of the storm rejoice. So
stood the silent king of Temora ; at length his words
are heard.''
Homer's comparison of Achilles to the Dog-Star,
is very sublime. " Priam beheld him rushing along
the plain, shining in his armor, like the star of autumn :
bright are its beams, distinguished amidst the multi-
tude of stars in the dark hour of night. It rises in its
splendor ; but its splendor is fatal ; betokening to
miserable men the destroying heat."* 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
of death, setting in the heath of Malmor, when the
traveller is alone, and the broad moon is darkened in
heaven." The hero's appearance in Homer is more
magnificent ; in Ossian, more terrible.
A tree cut down, or overthrown by a storm, is a
similitude frequent among poets for describing the fall
of a warrior in battle. Homer employs it often. But
the most beautiful, by far, of his comparisons, founded
on this object, indeed one of the most beautiful in the
whole Iliad, is that on the death of Euphorbus. " As
the young and verdant olive, which a man hath reared
with care in a lonely field, where the springs of water
* Iliad, xxii. 26.
I
- ON THE POEWS OF OSSIAN. 163
bubble around it ; it is fair and flourishing ; it is fan-
ned by the breath of all the winds, and loaded with
white blossoms ; when the sudden blast of a whirlwind
descending, roots it out from its bed, and stretches it
on the dust."* To this, elegant as it is, we may op-
pose 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 c^i 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 return-
ed ; 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 lender, 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 fiom the desert,
and laid my green head low. The spring returned
with its showers ; but no leaf of mine arose."' Several
of Ossian's similes, taken from trees, are remarkably
beautiful, and diversified with well-chosen circum-
stances ; such as that upon the death of Ryno and
Orla: " They have fallen like the oak of the desert ;
when it lies across a stream, and withers in the wind
of the mountains." Or tliat which Ossian applies to
himself: " I, like an ancient oak in Morven, moulder
alone in my place ; the blast hath lopped my branches
away; and I tremble at the winds of the north."
As Homer exalts- his heroes by comparing them to
gods, Ossian makes the same use of comparisons taken
from spirits and ghosts. " Swaran roared in battle,
like the shrill spirit of a storm, that sits dim on -the
clouds of Gormal, and enjoys the death of the mari-
ner." His people gathered round Erragon, " like
Iliad, xvii. 53.
164 CRITlC/tL DISSERTATION
Storms around the gliost of night, when he calls them
from the top of Morvcn, 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 rmd
fierce, attends him ; who fills with dismay the most
valiant hero. They come from Thrace armed against
the Ephyrians and Phlegyans ; nor do they regard the
prayers of either, but dispose of success at their wii!/" ="
The idea here is undoubtedly noble, but observe vviiat
a figure Ossian sets before the astonished imagination,
and with wlmt sublimely-terrible circumstances he has
heightened it. " He rushed, in the sound of his arms,
like the dreadful spirit of Loda, when ho 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
fiaming locks. So terrible was Cuthullin in the day of
his fame."
Homer's comparisons relate chiefly to martial sub-
jeets, 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 difierent
♦ Iliad, xiii. 293.
ON THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 165
circumstances of old age, sorrow, and private distress ;
which give occasion to much beautiful imagery. What,
for instance, can be more delicate and moving, than
the following simile of Oithona's, in her lamentation
over the dishonor she had sulTered ? " 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 ?" The
music of bards, a favorite object with Ossian, is illus-
trated 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, be-
cause they v/ould do honor to any of the most cele-
brated classics. The one is : " Sit thou on the heath,
O bard ! and let us hear thy voice ; it is pleasant as
the gale of the spring that sighs on the hunter's ear,
when he awakens from dreams of joy, and has heard
the music of the spirits of the hill." The other con-
tains a short but exquisitely tender image, accompa-
nied 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 de-
parted 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 Vir-
gilian numbers !
1 have chosen all along to compare Ossian with
Homer, rather than Virgil, for an obvious reason.
There is a much nearer correspondence between the
times and manners of the two former poets. Both
166 CRITICAL DISSERTATION
wrote in an early period of society ; both are origin-
als ; both are distinguished by simplicity, sublimity,
and fire. The correct elegances of Virgil, his artful
imitation of Homer, the Roman statelineSs which he
everywhere maintains, admit no parallel with the ab-
rupt 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 feel-
ings of the one are more gentle and polished — tho3e
of the other more strong : the tenderness of Virgil
softens — that of Ossian dissolves and overcomes the
heart.
A resemblance may be sometimes observed between
Ossian's comparisons and those employed by the sa-
cred 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 dif-
ferent from those of Ossian : a warmer country, a more
smiling face of nature, the arts of agriculture and of
rural life much farther advanced. The wine-press and
the threshing-floor are often presented to us ; the
cedar and the palm-tree, the fragrance of perfumes,
the voice of the turtle, and the beds of lilies. The
similes are, like Ossian's, generally short, touching on
one point of resemblance, rather than spread out into
little episodes. In the following example may be per-
ceived what inexpressible grandeur poetry receives
from the intervention of the Deity. " The nations
shall rush like the rushing of many waters ; but God
shall rebuke them, and they shall fly far off, and shall
be chased as the chaff of the mountains before the
wind, and like the down of the thistle before the whirl-
wind."*
* Isaiah, xvii. 13
1
ON THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 167
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 substi-
tutes 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 us in
darkness, first of the maids of Lutha ! — Soon hast thou
set, Malvina ! but thou risest, like the beam of the east,
among the spirits of thy friends, where they sit in their
stormy halls, the chambers of the thunder." This is
correct, and finely supported. But in the following
instance, the metaphor, though very beautiful at the
beginning, becomes imperfect before it closes, by being
improperly mixed with the literal sense. " Trathal
went forth with the stream of his people : but they met
a rock ; Fingal stood unmoved ; broken, they rolled
back from his side. Nor did they roll in safety ; the
spear of the king pursued their flight."
The hyperbole is a figure which we might expect to
find often employed by Ossian ; as the undisciplined
imagination of early ages generally prompts 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-
168 'JKITICAL DlStiEKTATION
vantage owing, no doubly to the more cultivated state
in which, as was before shown, poetry subsisted among
the ancient Celtse, 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 there-
of ; and all the people that we saw in it are men of a
great stature : and there saw we giants, the sons of
Anak, which come of the giants ; and we were in our
own sight as grasshoppers, and so we were in their
sight."*
With regard to personifications, I formerly observed
that Ossian was sparing, and I accounted for his being
so. Allegorical personages he has none ; and their
absence is not to be regretted. For the intermixture
of those shadowy beings, which have not the support
even of mythological or legendary belief, with human
actors, seldom produces a gooi effect. The fiction
♦ Numbers, xiii. 32, 33.
ON THE POEMS OF OSSIAW. 169
becomes 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 fine one of Cuthul-
lin to Bragela, at the conclusion of the same book.
He commands 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 Cuthullin ? The sea is rolling far distant, and
its white foam shall deceive thee for my sails." And
now his imagination being wrought up to conceive her
as, at that moment, really in this situation, he becomes
afraid of the harm she may receive from the inclem-
ency of the night ; and with an enthusiasm happy and
aflTecting, though beyond the cautious strain of modern
poetry, " Retire," he proceeds, " retire, for it is night,
my love, and the dark winds sigh in thy hair. Retire to
the hall of my feasts, and think of the times that are
past : for I will not return until the storm, of war has
ceased. O, Connal ! speak of wars and arms, and
send her from my mind ; for lovely with her raven
hair is the v/hite-bosomed daughter of Sorglan." This
breathes all the native spirit of passion and tenderness.
The addresses to the sun, to the moon, and to the
evening star, must draw the attention of every reader
15
170 CRITICAL DISSERTATION
of taste, as among the most splendid ornaments ot 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 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." We may be at a loss to compre-
hend, at first view, the ground of those speculations of
Ossian concerning the moon : but when all the circum-
stances arc attended to, they will appear to flow natu-
rally 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 present to his
melancholy imagination the image of sorrow ; and
presently the idea arises, and is indulged, that like
himself, she retires to mourn over the loss of other
moons, or of stars, whom he calls her sisters, and fan-
cies to have once rejoiced with her at night, now fallen
from heaven. Darkness suggested the idea of mourn-
ing, and mourning suggested nothing so naturally to
Ossian as the death of beloved friends. An instance
precisely similar, of this influence of passion, may be
seen in a passage, which has always been admired, of
Shakspeare's King Lear. The old man, on the point of
distraction through the inhumanity of his daughters, sees
Edgar appear, disguised like a beggar and a madman.
Iawt. Didst thou give all to thy daughters % And art thou come
to this 1
Couldst thou leave nothing 1 Didst thou give them all "?
ON THE POEMS OF OSSlAN. 171
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,
Nathos, nor is that the roar of thy cHmbing waves.
The halls of Cairbar are near, and the towers of the
foe lift their heads. Where have ye been, ye southern
winds ! when the sons of my love were deceived ? But
ye have been sporting on plains, and pursuing the this-
tle's beard. O that ye had been rustling in the sails
of Nathos, till the hills of Etha rose ! till they rose in
their clouds, and saw their coming chief." This pas-
sage is remarkable for the resemblance it bears to an
expostulation with the wood nymphs, on their absence
at a critical time ; which, as a favorite poetical idea,
Virgil has copied from Theocritus, and Milton has very
happily imitated from both.
Where were ye, nymphs ! when the remorseless deep
Clos'd o'er the head of your lov'd Lycidas 1
For neither were ye playing on the steep
Where your old bards, the famous Druids, he !
Nor on the shaggy top of Mona, high.
Nor yet where Deva spreads her wizard stream. — Lydd.
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 ; that is,
suited to the character and situation of those who utter
them, In this respect Ossian is as correct as most
writers. His characters, as above described, are, in
general, well supported ; which could not have been
the case, had the sentiments been unnatural or out of
place. A variety of personages, of different ages, sexes,
and conditions, are introduced into his poems ; and
172 CRITICAL DISSERTATION
they speak and act with a propriety of sentiment and
behavior which it is surprising to find in so rude an age
Let the poem of Dar-thula, throughout, be taken as an
example.
But it is not enough that sentiments be natural and
proper. In order to acquire any high degree of poeti-
cal merit, they must also be sublime and pathetic.
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 eleva-
tion, and fill it with admiration and astonishment. This
is the highest effect either of eloquence or poetry ; and,
to produce this cfTect^ requires a genius glowing with
the strongest and warmest conception of some object,
awful, great, or magnificent. That this character of
genius belongs to Ossian, may, I think, sufficiently ap-
pear from many of the passages I have already had
occasion to quote. To produce more instances were
superfluous. If the engagement of Fingal with the
spirit of Loda, in Carric-thura ; if the encounters of
the armies, in Fingal 5 if the address to the sun, in
Carthon ; if the similes founded upon ghosts and' spirits
of the night, all formerly mentioned, be not admitted
as examples, and illustrious ones too, of the true poeti-
cal sublime, I confess myself entirely ignorant of this
quality in writing.
All the circumstances, indeed, of Ossian 's composi-
tion, are favorable to the sublime, more perhaps than
to any other species of beauty. Accuracy and correct-
ness, artfully connected narration, exact method and
proportion of parts, we may look for in polished times.
The gay and the beautiful will appear to more advan-
tage in the midst of smiling scenery and pleasurable
themes ; but, amidst the rude scenes of nature, amidst
7Gcks and torrents, and whirlwinds and battles, dwells
ON THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 1Y3
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.
L)se pater, media nimborum in nocte, corused
Fulmina molitur dextra ; quo maxima motu
Terra tremit ; fugere lerae ; et mortalia corda
Per gentes, humilis stravit pavor ; ille, flagranti
Aut Atho, aut Rhodopen, aut alta Ceraunia telo
Dejicit. Virg. Georg. i.
Simplicity and conciseness are never-failing 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 sen-
timent is presented to it in its native form. But no
sooner does the poet attempt to spread out this senti-
ment, or description, and to deck it round and round
with glittering ornaments, than the mind begins to fall
from its high elevation ; the transport is over ; the
beautiful may remain, but the sublime is gone. Hence
the concise and simple style of Ossian gives great ad-
vantage to his sublime conceptions, and assists them in
seizing the imagination with full power.
SubHmity, as belonging to sentiment, coincides, in a
great measure, with magnanimity, heroism, and gener-
osity of sentiment. Whatever discovers human nature
in its greatest elevation ; whatever bespeaks a high
effort of soul, or shows a mind superior to pleasures,
to dangers, and to death, forms what may be called
the moral of sentimental sublime. For this Ossian is
15*
174 CRITICAL DISSERTATION
eminently distinguished. No poet maintains a liigher
tone of virtuous and noble sentiment throughout all his
works. Particularly in all the sentiments of Fingal
there is a grandeur and loftiness, proper to swell the
mind with the highest ideas of human perfection.
Wherever he appears, we behold the hero. The ob-
jects which he pursues are always truly great : to bend
the proud ; to protect the injured ; to defend his friends ;
to overcome his enemies by generosity more than by
force. A portion of the same spirit actuates all the
other heroes. Valor reigns ; but it is a generous
valor, void of ciaielty, animated by honor, not by hatred.
We behold no debasing passions among Fingal's war-
riors ; no spirit of avarice or of insult ; but a perpetual
contention for fame ; a desire of being distinguished
and remembered for gallant actions ; a love of justice ;
and a zealous attachment to their friends and their
country. Such is the strain of sentiment in the works
of Ossian.
But the sublimity of moral sentiments, if they want-
ed the softening of the tender, would be in hazard of
giving a hard and stiff air to poetry. It is not enough
to admire. Admiration is a cold feeling, in compari-
son of that deep interest which the heart takes in ten-
der and pathetic scenes ; where, by a mysterious
attachment to the objects of compassion, we are pleas-
ed and delighted, even whilst we mourn. With scenes
of tnis kind Ossian abounds ; and his high merit in
thei^e is incontestible. He may be blamed for draw-
ing tears too often from our eyes ; but that he has the
power of commanding them, I believe no man, who
has the least sensibility, will question. The general
character of his poetry is the heroic mixed with the
elegiac strain; admiration tempered with pity. Ever
fond of giving, as he expresses it, " the joy of grief,"
it is visible that, on all moving subjects, he delights to
ON THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 176
exert his genius ; and, accordingly, never were there
finer pathetic situations than what his works present.
His great art in managing them lies in giving vent to
the simple and natural emotions of the heart. We
mee* with no exaggerated declamation ; no subtile re-
fihcments on sorrow ; no substitution of description in
])!ace of passion. Ossian felt strongly himself; and
the heart, when uttering its native language, never fails,
by powerful S3'mpathy, to affect the heart. A great
variety of examples might be produced. We need
only open the book to find them every vvhere. What,
for instance, can be more moving than the lamenta-
tions of Oithona, after her misfortune ? Gaid, the son
of I\Iorni, her lover, ignorant of what she had suffered,
comes to her rescue. Their meeting is tender in the
fiigliest degree. He proposes to engage her foe, in
tingle combat, and gives her in charge what she is to
do if he himself shall fall. '•' And shall the daughter
of Nuath live ?" she replied, with a bursting sigh.
" Shall I live in Tromathon. and the son of Morni
low ? ]\Iy heart is not of that rock : nor my soul care-
less as that sea, which lifts its blue waves to every
wind, and rolls beneath the storm. The blast, which
shall lay thee low, shall spread the branches of Oithona
on earth. We shall wither together, son of car-borne
Morni ! The narrow house is pleasant to me, and the
gray stone of the dead ; for never more will I leave
tny rocks, sea-surrounded Tromatlion ! — Chief of Stru-
nion ! why comest thou over the waves to Nuath's
mournful daughter ? Why did I not pass away in
secret, like the flower of the rocks that lifts its fair
head unseen, and strews its withered leaves on the
blast 1 Why didst thou come, O Gaul ! to hear my
departing sigh ? — O, had I dwelt at Duvranna, in the
bright beam of my fame ! Then had my years come
on with joy : and the virgins would bless my steps.
17C CRITICAL DISSERTATION-
But I fall in youth, son of Morni ! and my father d-i .
blush in his hall !"
Oithona mourns like a woman : in Cuthullin's ex>
pressions of grief after his defeat, we behold the senti-
ments of a hero — generous, but desponding. The sit-
uation 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-roll-
ing eyes on the foe. He thrice attempted to rush to
battle ; and thrice did Connal stop him ;" suggesting
that Fingal was routing the foe ; and that he ought
not, by the shaw of superfluous aid, to deprive the king
of any part of the honor of a victory, which was owing
to him alone. > Cuthullin yields to this generous senti-
ment ; but we see it stineino; him to the heart with the
sense of his own disgrace. " Then, Carril, go," re-
plied the chief, " and greet the king of Morven. VVher
Lochlin falls avvay like a stream after rain, and the
noise of the battle is over, then be thy voice sweet in
his ear, to praise the king of swords. Give him the
sword of Caithbat ; for Cuthullin is worthy no more to
lift the arms of his fathers. But, O ye ghosts of the
lonely Cromla ! ye souls of chiefs that are no more '
be ye the companions of Cuthullin, and talk to him in
the cave of his sorrow. For never more shall I be re-
nowned 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
.he shaggy side of the hill. Connal ! talk of arms no
more : departed is my fame. My sighs shall be on
Cromla's wind ; till my footsteps cease to be seen.
And thou, white-bosomed Bragela ! mourn over the
fall of my fame : for vanquished, I will never return to
thee, thou sunbeam of Dunscaich !"
ON THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 177
^Estuat inffens
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 Andro-
mache, in the sixth Iliad, the circumstance of the child
in his nurse's arms, has often been remarked as adding
much to the tenderness of the scene. In the following
passage, relating to the death of Cuthullin, we find a
circumstance that must strike the imagination with still
greater force. " And is the son of Semo fallen 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
shown all the grief of a father's heart for Ryno, one
of his sons, fallen in battle, he is calling, after his ac-
customed manner, his sons to the chase. " Call," says
he, " Fillan and Ryno. — But he is not here. — My son
rests on the bed of death." This unexpected start of
anguish is worthy of the highest tragic poet.
If she come in, she'll sure speak to my wife—
My wife ! — my wife ! — ^What wife ">. — I have no wife —
Oh, insupportable ! Oh, heavy hour ! Othello.
The contrivance of the incident in both poets is
similar : but the circumstances are varied with 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 of a
hero, corrects himself, and suppresses his rising grief.
178 CRITICAL DISSERTATION
The contrast vvliich Ossian frequently makes between
his present and his former state, diffuses over his whole
poetry a solemn pathetic air, which cannot fail to make
impression on every heart. The conclusion of the
songs of Selmais particularly calculated for this purpose.
Nothing can be more poetical and tender, or can leave
upon the mind a stronger and more affecting idea of
the venerable and aged bard. " Such were the words
of the bards in the days of the song ; when the king
heard the music of harps, and the tales of other times.
The chiefs gathered from all their hills, and heard the
lovely sound. They praised the voice of Cona,* the
first among a thousand bards. But age is now on my
tongue, and my soul has failed. I hear, sometimes,
the ghosts of bards, and learn their pleasant song.
But memory fails on my mind ; I hear the call of
years. They sa,y, 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 re-
mains, like a blast, that roars lonely on the sea-rur-
rounded rock, after the winds are laid. The dark moss
whistles there, and the distant mariner sees the waving
trees."
Upon the whole, if to feel strongly, and to describe
naturally, be the two chief ingredients in poetical 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 pointed out in
his works ? — whether this or that passage might not
have been worked up with more art and skill, by some
writer of happier times ? A thousand such cold and
• Ossian himself is poetically called the voice of Cona.
OF THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 179
(rivolous eriticisiTjs are altogether indecisive as to his
genuine merit. But has he the spirit, the fire, the in-
spiration of a poet? Does he utter the voice of nature ?
Does he elevate by his sentiments ? Does he interest
by his description ? Does he paint to the heart as well
as to the fancy ? Does he make his readers glov/, and
tremble, and weep ? These are the great character-
istics of true poetry. Where these are found, he must
be a minute critic, indeed, who can dwell upon slight
defects. A few beauties of tliis high kind transcend
whole volumes of faultless mediocrity. Uncouth and
abrupt Ossian may sometimes appear, by reason of his
conciseness ; but he is sublime, he is pathetic, in an
eminent degree. If he has not the extensive know-
ledge, 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
ihought too melancholy, yet he is always moral.
Though his merit were in other respects much less
than it is, this alone ought to entitle him to high regard,
that his writings are remarkably favorable to virtue.
They awake the tenderest sympathies, and inspire the
most generous emotions. No reader can rise from him
Without being warmed with the sentiments of human-
ity, virtue, and honor.
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,
180 CRITICAL DISSERTATIO-N
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 Uterally, 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-
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 master-
ly, as Mr. Macpherson's translation is, we must never
forget, whilst we read it, that we are putting the merit
of the original to a severe test. For we are examining
a poet stripped of his native dress ; divested of the
harmony of his own numbers. We know how much
grace and energy the works of the Greek and Latin
poets receive from the charm of versification in their
original languages. If then, destitute of this advan-
tage, exhibited in a literal version, Ossian still has
power to please as a poet ; and not to please only, but
often to command, to transport, to melt the heart ; we
may very safely infer that his productions are the off-
spring of a true and uncommon genius ; and we may
boldly assign him a place among those whose works
are to last for agea.
ON THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. IB\
NOTE. (p. 93.)
Pugnavimus ensibus
Haud pes t iongum tempus
Cum in Gotlandia accessimus
Ad sernentis immensi necem
Tunc impetravimus Thoram
Ex hoc vocarunt me virum
Quod serpentem transfodi
Hirsutam braccam ob illam csedem
Cuspide ictum intuli in colubrum
FeiTO lucidorum stupendiorum.
Multum juvcnis fui quando acquisivimus'
Orientem versus in Oreonico freto
Vulnerum amnes avidse ferse
Et flavipcdi avi
Accepirnus ibidem sonuerunt
Ad sublimes galeas
Dura ferra magnam escam
Omnis erat oceanus vulnus
Vadavit corvus in sanguine csesorum.
Alte tulimu/i tunc lanceas
Quando viginti annos numeravimus
Et celebrem Iciudem comparavimus passim
Vicimus octo barones
In oriente ante Dimini portum
Aquiise impetravimus tunc sufficientom
Hospitii sumptum in ilia strage
Sudor decidit in vulnerum
Uceano perdidit exercitus setatem.
Pugnse facta copia
Cum Helsingianos postulavimus
Ad aulam Odini
Naves direximus in ostium Vistulaa
If
182 CRITICAL DISSERTATION
Mucro potuit luin mordere
Omnis crat vulnus unda
Terra rubefacta calido
Frendebat gladius in loricas
Gladius fuidebat clypros.
Memini neminem tunc fugisse
Priusquam in navibus
Heraudus in bello caderet
Non findit navibus
Alius baro prsestantior
Mare ad portum
In navibus longis post ilium
Sic attulit princeps passim
Alacre in bellum cor.
Exercitus abjecit clypeos
Cum hasta volavit
Ardua ad virorum pectora
Momordit Scarforum cautes
Cladius in pugna
Sanguineus erat clypeus
Antequam Rafno rex caderet
Fluxit ex virorum capitibus
Calidas in loricas sudor.
Habere potuerunt tum corvi
Ante Indirorum insulas
Sufficicntem prsedam dilaniandam
Acquisivimus feris carnivoris
Plenum prandium unico actu
Difficile erat unius facere mentionem
Oriente sole
Spicula vidi pungere
Propulerunt arcus ex se ferra.
Altum mugierunt enses
Antequam in Laneo campo
ON THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 188
Eislinus rex cecidit
Processimus auro ditati
Ad terrain prostratorum dimicandum
Gladius secuit clypeorura
Picturas in galearum conventu
Cervicum mustum ex vulneribus
Diffusum per cerebrum fissum.
Tenuimus clypeos in sanguine
Cum hastam unximus
Ante Boring hoi mum
Telorum nubes disrumpunt clypeum
Extrusit arcus ex se metallum
Volnir cecidit in conflictu
Non erat illo rex major
Caesi dispersi late per littora
Ferse amplectebantur escam.
Pugna manifeste crescebat
Antequam Freyr rex caderet
In Flandorum terra
Coepit cseruleus ad incidendum
Sanguine illitus in auream
Loricam in pugna
Durus armorum 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.
184 CRITICAL DISSERTATION
Ruit pluvia sanguinis de gladiis
Prseceps in Bardafyrde
Pallidum corpus pro accipitribus
Murmuravit arcus ubi mucro
Acriter mordebat loricas
In conflictu
Odini pileus galea
Cucurrit arcus ad vulnus
Venenate acutus conspersus sudore sanguineo.
Tenuimus magica scuta
Alte in pugnse ludo
Ante Hiadningum sinum
Videre licuit turn viros
Qui gladiis lacerarunt clypeos
In gladiatorio murmure
Galese attritse virorum
Erat sicut splendidam virginem
In lecto juxta se collocare.
Dura venit tempestas clypeis
Cadaver cecidit in terram
In Nortumbria
Erat circa matutinum tempus
Hominibus necessum erat fugere
Ex prselio ubi acute
Cassidis campos mordebant gladii
Erat hoc veluti juvenem viduam
In primaria sede osculari.
Herthiofe evasit fortunatus
In Austral ibus Orcadibus ipse
Victorise in nostris hominibus
Cogebatur in armorum nimbo
Rogvaldus occumbere
Iste venit summus super accipitres
Luctus in gladiorum ludo
ON THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 185
Strenue jactabat concussor
Galeae sanguinis teli,
Quilibet jacebat transversim supm alium
Gaudcbat pugna Isetus
Accipiter ob gladiorum ludum
Non fecit aquilam aut aprum
Qui Irlandiam gubernavit
Conventus fiebat ferri et clypei
Marstanus rex jejunis
Fiebat in vedrss sinu
Prseda data cor vis.
Bellatorem multum vidi cadere
Mante ante machseram
Virum in mucronum dissidio
Filio meo incidit mature
Gladius juxta cor
Egillus fecit Agnerum spoliatum
Imperterritum virum vita
Sonuit lancea prope Hamdi
Griseam loricam splendebant vexilk
Verborum tenaces vidi dissecare
Haud minutim pro lupis
Endili maris ensibus
Erat per hebdomadse spatium
Quasi mulieres vinum apportarenl
Rubefactse erant naves
Valde in strepitu armorum
Scissa erat lorica
In Scioldungorum prselio.
Pulcricomum vidi crepuscu.ascere
Virginia amatorem circa matutinum
Et confibulationis amicum viduarum
Erat sicut calidum balneum
Vinei vasis nympha portaret
16*
186 CRITICAL DISSERTATION
Nos in Use freto
Antcquam Orn rex caderet
SangLiineurii clypeum vidi ruptuin
Hoc invertit virorum vitam.
Egimus gladiorum ad caedem
Ludum in Lindis insula
Cum regibus tribus
Pauci potuerunt inde IsBtari
Cecidit multus in rictum ferarum
Accipiter dilaniavit carnem cum lupo
Ut satur inde discederet
Hybernorum sanguinis in oceanum
Copiose decidit per mactationis tempu*-
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 insulani
At volans Draco vulnerum.
Quid est viro forti morte certius
Etsi ipse in armorum nimbo
Adversus collocatus sit
Ssepe deplorat ostatem
Qui nunquam premitur
Malum ferunt timidum incitare
Aquilam ad gladiorum ludum
Meticulosus venit nuspiam
Cordi suo usui.
Hoc numero sequum ut procodat
In contactu gladiorum
Juvenis unus contra alterum
ON THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 187
Non retrocedat vir a viro
Hoc fuit viri fortis nobilitas diu
Semper debet amoris amicus virginum
Audax esse in fremiti! armorum.
Hoc vidclur mihi re vera
Quod feta sequimur
Rarus transgreditur fata Parcarum
Non destinavi Ellce
De vita3 exitu meas
Cum ego sanguinem semimortuus tegereni
Et naves in aquas protrusi
Pas«irn impetravim.us turn feris
Escani in Scotiee sinubus.
Hoc riderc me facit semper
Quod Baldcri j)atris scamnp
Parata scio in aula
Bibemus ccrevisiam brevi
Ex concavis crateribus craniorum
Non gemit vir fortis contra mortem,
Magnifici m Ooini domibus
Non venio disperabundis
Verbis ad Odini aulam.
Hie vellent nunc omnes
Filii Aslaugse gladiis
Amarum be 11 urn excitare
Si exacte scirent
Calamitates nostras
Quern non pauci angues
Venenati me discerpunt
Matrem accepi meis
Filiis ita ut corda valeant.
Valde inclinatur ad hoereditatem
Crudele stat nocumentum a vipera
Anguis inbabitat aulam cordis
188 CRITICAL DISSERTATION, ETC.
Speramus alterius ad Othini
Virgam in EUse sanguine
Filiis meis livescet
Sua ira rubescet
Non acres juvenes
Sessionem tranquiliam facienl,
Habeo quinquagies
Praelia sub signis facta
Ex belli invitatione et semel
Minime putavi hominum
Quod me futurus esset
Juvenis didici mucronem rubefacera
Alius rex prsestantior
Nos Asse invitabunt
Non est lugenda mors.
Fert animus finire
Invitant me Dysse
Quas ex Othini aula
Othinus mihi misit
Lseti5s cerevisiam cum Asig
In summa sede bibam
Vitse elapsse sunt horse
Ridens moriar.
CATH-LODA.
ARGUMENT OF DUAN I.
Fingal, when very yonn^, making a voyage to the Orkney Islands,
was driven by stress of weather into a bay of Scandinavia, near
the residence ot" Starno, king of Lochlin. Starno invites Finaal
to a feast. Fingal, doubting the faith of the king, and mindful
of a former breach of hospitaUty, refuses to go. — Starno gathers
together his tribes; Fingal resolves to defend himself. — Night
coming on, Duth-maruno proposes to Fingal to observe the mo-
tions of the enemy. — The king himself undertakes the watch.
Advancing towards the enemy, he accidentally comes to the
cave of Turthor, w'here Starno had confined ConbaivCargla, the
captive daughter of a neighboring chief — Her story is imperfect,
a part of the original being lost. — Fingal comes to a place of
worship, where Starno, and his son Swaran, consulted tne spirit
of Loda concerning the issue of the war. — The ren<;oimter of
Fingal and Swaran. — Duan first concludes with a description of
the airy hall of Cnith-ioda, supposed to be the Odin of Scandi-
navia.
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 1 I hear no distant roar of streams !
No sound of the harp from the rock ! Come, thou hun-
tress of Lutha, Malvina, call back his soul to the bard.
I look forward to Lochin of lakes, to the dark billowy
bay of U-thorno, where Fingal descends from ocean,
from the roar of winds. Few are the heroes of Mor-
ven 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 Star-
no, shall Fingal behold. Deaths wander, like shadows,
over his fiery soul ! Do I forget that beam of light, the
* The bards distinguished those compositions in which the nar-
ration is often interrupted by episodes and apostrophes, by the
aaine of Duan.
190 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN.
white-handed daughter of kings ?* Go, son of Loda ;
his words are wind to Fingal : wind, that, to and fro,
drives the thistle in autumn's dusky vale. Duth-maru-
no, arm of death ! Cromma-glas, of Iron shields !
Struthmor, dweller of battle's wing ! Cromar, whose
ships bound on seas, careless as the course of a me-
teor, on dark-rolling clouds ! Arise around me, chil-
dren of heroes, in a land unknown ! Let each look on
his shield like Trenmor, the ruler of wars." — "Come
down," thus Trenmor said, " thou dweller between the
harps ! Thou shalt roll this stream away, or waste
with me in earth."
Around the king they rise in wrath. No words
come forth : they seize their spears. Each soul is
rolled into itself. At length the sudden clang is waked
on all their echoing shields. Each takes his hill by
night ; at intervals they darkly stand. Unequal bursts
the hum of songs, between the roaring wind !
Broad over them rose the moon !
In his arms came tall Duth-maruno : he, from Croma
of rocks, stern hunter of the boar ! In his dark boat
he rose on waves, when Crumthormof awaked its
woods. In the chase he shone, among foes : No fear
was thine, Duth-maruno !
" Son of daring Comhal, shall my steps be forward
through night ? From this shield shall I view them,
over their gleaming tribes ? Starno, king of lakes, is
before me, and Swaran, the foe of strangers. Their,
words are not in vain, by Loda's stone of power.
Should Duth-maruno not return, his spouse is lonely
at home, where meet two roaring streams on Crath-
mocraulo's plain. Around are hills, with echoing
woods ; the ocean is rolling near. My son looks on
♦ Agandecca, the daughter of Starno, whom her father killed,
on account of her discovering to Fingal a plot laid against his life.
"t Crumthormoth, one of the Orkney or Shetland iSands
CATH-LODA. 191
screaming sea-fowl, a young wanderer on the field.
Give the head of a boar to Candona, tell him of his
father's joy, when the bristly strength of U-thorno
rolled on his lifted spear. Tell him of my deeds in
war ! Tell where his father fell !'*'
" Not forgetful of my fathers," said Fingal, " I have
bounded over the seas. Theirs were the times of dan-
ger in the days of old. Nor settles darkness on me,
before foes, though youthful in my locks. Chief of
Crathmocraulo, the field of night is mine."
Fingal rushed, in all his arms, wide bounding over
Turthor's stream, that sent its sullen roar, by night,
through Gormal's misty vale. A moonbeam glittered
on a rock ; in the midst stood a stately form ; a form
with floating locks, like Lochlin's white-bosomed maids.
Unequal are her steps, and short. She throws a
broken song on wind. At times she tosses her white
arms : for grief is dwelling in her soul.
" Torcal-torno, of aged locks," she said, " where
now are thy steps, by Lulan ? Thou hast failed at
thine own dark streams, father of Conban-cargla ! But
I behold thee, chief of Lulan, sporting by Loda's hall,
when the dark-skirted night is rolled along the sky.
Thou sometimes hidest the moon with thy shield. I
have seen her dim, in heaven. Thou kindlest thy
hair into meteors, and sailest along the night. Why
am I forgot, in my cave, king of shaggy boars 1 Look
from the hall of Loda, on thy lonely daughter."
" Who art thou," said Fingal, " voice of night ?"
She, trem.bling, 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
fosehiy stream : he dwelt — but now, in Loda's hall, ha
192 THE POEMS or OSSIAN.-
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 <;athercd 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-toi-no. 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 so id, he that was mighty
in war ! Thou art left alone among foes, O daughter
of Torcul-torno ! He took my haiid. He raised the
sail. In this cave he placed me dark. At times he
comes a gathered niist. He lifts before me my fa*
ther's shield. But often passes a beam of youth far
distant from my cave. The son of Starno moves in
my sight. He dwells lonely in my soul."'
" Maid of Lulan," said Fingal, " white-handed
daughter of gi-ief ! a cloud, marked with streaks of fire,
is rolled along my soul. Look not to that dark-robed
moon ; look not to those meteors of heaven. My
gleaming steel is around thee, the terror of my foes !
It is not the steel of the feeble, nor of the dark in soul !
The maids are not shut in our caves Of streams.
They toss not their white arms alone. They bend
fair within their locks, above the harps of Selma.
Their voice is not in the desert wild. We melt along
the pleasing sound !"
Fingal again advanced his steps, wide through the
bosom of night, to where the trees of Loda shook amid
squally winds. Three stones, with heads of moss, are
there ; a stream with foaming course : and dreadful,
rolled around them, is the dark red cloud of Loda.
High from its top looked forward a ghost, half formed
By a rock . al Uiljai's streain . I iad pi taxed. the"boTmdmz :
CATH-LODA. 193
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
Starno 's floating beard.
They heard the tread of Fingal. The warriors rose
in arms. " Swaran, lay that wanderer low," said Star-
no, in his pride. '' Take the shield of thy father. It
is a rock in war." Swaran threw his gleaming spear.
It stood fixed in Loda's tree. Then came the foes 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. Wrathful stood Swaran, unarmed. He rolled
his silent eyes ; he threw his sword on earth. Then,
slowly stalking over the stream, he whistled as he
went.
Nor unseen of his father is Swaran. Starno turns
away in wrath. His shaggy brows were dark above
his gathered rage. He strikes Loda's tree with his
spear. He raises the hum of songs. They come to
the host of Lochlin, each in his own dark path ; like
two foam-covered streams from two rainy vales !
To Turthor's plain Fingal returned. Fair rose the
beam of the east. It shone on the spoils of Lochlin
in the hand of the king. From her cave came forth,
in her beauty, the daughter of Torcul-torno. She
gathered her hair from wind. She wildly raised her
song. The song of Lulan of shells, where once her
father dwelt. She saw Starno's bloody shield. Glad-
♦ The sword of Fingal, so called from its maker, Luno of
Lochlin.
17
194 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN.
ness rose, a light, on her face. She saw the cleft hel-
met of Swaraii. She shrunk, darkened, from Fingal.
" Art thou fallen by thy hundred streams, O love of the
mournful maid ?"
U-thorno that risest in waters ! on whose side are
the meteors of night ? I behold the dark moon do-
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 CruLh-loda
of swords. His form is dimly seen amid his wavy
mist. His right hand is on his shield. In his left is
the half viewless shell. The roof of his dreadful hall
is marked with nightly fires !
The race of Cruth-loda advance, a ridge of form-
less shades. He reaches the sounding shell to those
who shone in war. But between him and the feeble,
his shield rises a darkened orb. He is a setting meteor
to the weak in arms. Bright as a rainbow on streams,
came Lulan's white-bosomed maid.
ARGUMENT OF DUAN II.
Fingal, returning with daj'', devolves the command on Duth-
maruno, who engages the enemy, and drives them over the
stream of Turthor. Slaving recalled his people, he congratulates
Duth-maruno on his succesr-, but discovers that (hat hero had
been mortally wounded in the action — Duth-maruno dies. Ulhn,
the bard, in honor of the dead, introduces the episode of Col-
gorm and Striua-dona, which concludes this duan.
" Where art thou, son of the king ?" saio darK-
haired Duth-maruno. " Where hast thou failed, young
beam of Selma ? He returns not from the bosom of
night ! Morning is spread on U-thorno. In his mist
is the sun on his hill. Warriors, lift the shields in my
presence. He must not fall like a fire from heaven,
whose place is not marked on the ground. He comes
like an eagle, from the skirt of his squally wind ! In
CATH-LODA. 195
tiis hand are the spoil of foes. King of Selma, our
souls were sad !"
" Near us are the foes, Duth-maruno. They come
forward, like waves in mist, when their foamy tops are
seen at times above the low-sailing vapor. The tra-
/eller shrinks on his journey ; he knows not whither
to fly. No trembling travellers are we ! Sons of he-
roes call forth the steel. Shall the sword of Fingal
arise, or shall a warrior lead ?"
The deeds of old, said Duth-maruno, are like paths
to our eyes, O Fingal ! Broad-shielded Trenmor is
still seen amidst his own dim years. Nor feeble was
the soul of the king. There no dark deed wandered
in secret. From their hundred streams came the
tribes, to glassy Colglan-crona. Their chiefs were
before them. Each strove to lead the war. Their
swords were often half unsheathed. Red rolled their
eyes of rage. Separate they stood, and hummed their
surly songs. " Why should they yield to each other ?
their fathers were equal in war." Trenmor was there,
with his people stately, in youthful locks. He saw the
advancing foe. The grief of his soul arose. He bade
the chiefs to lead by turns ; they led, but they were
rolled away. From his own mossy hill blue-shielded
Trenmor came down. He led wide-skirted battle, and
the strangers failed. Around him the dark-browed
warriors came : they struck the shield of joy. Like a
'jleasant 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
ihe deeds of our fathers. But who shall now lead the war
Defore the race of kings ? Mist settles on these four dark
hills : within it let each warrior strike his shield . Spirits
may descend in darkness, and mark us for the war."
196 THE POEHS 01- OSSIAN.
They went each to his hill of mist. Bards marked
the sounds of the shields. Loudest rung thy boss,
Duth-maruno. Thou must lead in war !
Like the murmurs of waters the race of U-thorno
came down. Starno led the battle, and Swaran of
stormy isles. They looked forward from iron shields,
like Cruth-loda, fiery-eyed, v/hen he looks from behind
the darkened moon, and strews his signs on night. The
foes met by Turthor's stream. They heaved like ridgy
waves.. Their echoing strokes are mixed. Shadowy
death flies over the hosts. They were clouds of hail
with squally winds in their skirts. Their showers are
roaring together. Below them swells the dark-rolling
deep.
Strife of gloomy U-thorno, why should I mark thy
wounds ? Thou art with the years that are gone ; thou
feidest on r/iy soul !
Starno brought forward his skirt of war, and Swaran
his own dark wing. Nor a harmless fire is Duth-
maruno's sword. Lochlin is rolled over her streams.
The wrathful kings are lost in thought. They roll
their silent eyes over the flight of their land. The
horn of Fingal was heard ; the sons of woody Albion
returned. But many lay, by Turthor's stream, silent
in their blood.
" Chief of Crathmo," said the king, " Duth-maruno,
hunter of boars ! not harmless returns my eagle from
the field of foes ! For this white-bosomed Lanul shall
brighten at her streams ; Candona shall rejoice as he
wanders in Crathmo's fields."
" 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 Lthorno :*'
he left the land of his fathers. He chose his place ir»
* An island of Scandinavia.
CATH-LODA. 197
silence, by rocky Crathmo-craulo. His race camo
forth in their years ; they came forth to war, but they
always fell. The wound of nny 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 ti*a-
veller sees them, through the twilight, from his lonely
path. He thinks them the ghosts of the aged, forming
future wars.
Night came down on U-thorno. Still stood the chiefs
in their grief. The blast whistled, by turns, through
every warrior's hair. Fingal, at length, broke forth
from the thoughts of his soul. He called Ullin of
harps, and bade the song to rise. "No falling fire,
that is only seen, and then retires in night; no 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 dwellings old !"
I-thorno, said the bard, that risest midst ridgy seas !
Why is thy head so gloomy in the ocean's mist ? From
tliy vales came forth a race, fearless as thy strong-
winged eagles : the race of Colgorm of iron shields,
dwellers of Loda's hall.
In Tormoth's resounding isle arose Lurthan, streamy
lill. It bent its woody head over a silent vale. There,
tt foamy Cruruth's source, dwelt Rurmar, hunter of
k)ars ! His daughter was fair as a sunbeam, white-
bosomed Strina-dona !
Many a king of heroes, and hero of iron shields ;
many a youth of heavy locks came to Rurmar's echo-
ing hall. They came to woo the maid, the stately
huntress of Tormoth wild. But thou lookest careless
from thy steps, high-bosomed Strinadona !
17*
198 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN.
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
sunbeam of Tormoth wild. She saw them in their
echoing steel. Her soul was fixed on blue-eyed Col-
gorm. Ul-loclilin'sf nightly eye looked in, and saw
the tossing arms of Strina-dona.
Wrathful the brothers frowned. Their flaming eyes
in silence met. They turned away. They struck
their shields. Their hands were trembling on their
swords. They rushed into the strife of heroes for long-
haired Strina-dona.
Corcul-suran fell in blood. On his isle raged the
strength of his father. He turned Colgorm from
I-thorno, to wander on all the winds. In 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.
* The cana is a certain kind of grass, which grows plentifully is
tlie heathy morasses of the north.
t Ul-Iochlin, " the guide to Lochlin ;" the name of a star.
CATH-LODA. 199
ARGUMENT OF DUAN IIL
Oasian, after some general reflections, describes (lie situation of
Fingal, and the position of the army of Lochhn. — The conversR.
tion of Stamo and Svvaran. — The episode of Corman-trunar and
Foina-bragal. — Starno, tiom his own example, recommends to
Swaran to surprise Fingal, who had retired alone to a neighbor-
ing hill. Upon Swaran's refusal, Starno undertakes the enter-
prise himseh", is overcome and taken prisoner by Fingal. He is
dismissed, after a severe reprimand for his craelty.
Whence is the stream of years ? Whither do they roll
along ? Where have they hid, in mist, their many col-
ored sides.
I look unto the times of old, but they seem dim to
Ossian's eyes, like reflected moonbeams on a distant
lake. Here rise the red beams of war ! There, silent,
dwells a feeble race ! They mark no years with their
deeds, as slow they pass along. Dweller between the
shields ! thou that awakest the failing soul ! descend
fi-om thy wall, harp of Cona, with thy voices three !
Come with that which kindles the past : rear the forms
of old, on their own dark-brown years !
U-thorno, hill of storms, I behold my race on thy
side. Fingal is bending in night over Duth-maruno's
tomb. Near him are the steps of his heroes, hunters
of the boar. By Turthor's stream the host of Lochlin
is deep in siiades. The wrathful kings stood on two
hills : they looked forward on their bossy shields.
They looked forv/ard to the stars of night, red wander-
ing in tlK3 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
MoTven's king was not to yield in war.
He twice struck the tree in wrath. He rushed be-
fore his son. He hummed a surly song, and heard his
»ir in wind. Turned from one another, they stood,
200 THE POEMS OF OSSTAN.
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 careles?
rolled her eyes on the rider of stormy waves. She
fied to his ship in darkness, like a moonbeam through
a nightly veil. Annir pursued along the deep ; ho
called the winds of heaven. Nor alone was the king!
Starno was by his side. Like U-thorno's young eagle,
I turned my eyes on my father.
We rushed into roaring Urlor. With his people
came tall Corman-trunar. We fought ; but the foe pre-
vailed. In his wrath my father stood. He lopped the
young trees with his sword. His eyes rolled red in
his rage. 1 marked the soul of the king, and I retired
in night. From the field I took a broken helmet ; a
shield that was pierced with steel ; pointless was the
spear in my hand. I went to find the foe.
On a rock sat tall Corman-trunar beside his burnini
oak ; and near him beneath a tree, sat deep-bosomea
Foina-bragal. I threw my broken shield before her
I spoke the words of peace. " Besi'de his rolling sea
lies Annir of many lakes. The king was pierced ir
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.
CATH-LODA. 201
And Uiou, king of roaring Urlor, let the battle cease,
till Annir receive the shell from fiery-eyed Cruth-loda."
Bursting into tears, she rose, and tore a lock from
her hair ; a lock, which wandered in the blast, along
her heaving breast. Corman-trunar gave the she.l,
and bade me rejoice before him. I rested in the shade
of night, and hid my face in my helmet deep. Sleep
descended on the foe. I rose, like a stalking ghost.
I pierced the side of Corman-trmiar. 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 fied, like the depart-
ure of mist. Annir struck his bossy shield. He called
his dark-haired son. I came, streaked with wandering
blood : thrice rose the shout of the king, like the burst-
ing forth of a squall of wind from a cloud by night.
We rejoiced three days above the dead, and called the
hawks of heaven. They came from all their winds to
feast on Annir's foes. Swaran, Fingal is alone in his
iiill of night. Let thy spear pierce the king in secret ;
like Annir, my soul shall rejoice.
" Son of Annir," said Swaran, '' I shall not slay in
shades : I move forth in light : the hawks rush from all
their winds. They are wont to trace my course : it is
not harmless through war."
Burning rose the rage of the king. He thrice raised
his gleaming spear. But, starting, he spared his son,
and rushed into the night. By Turthor's stream, a
cave is dark, the dwelling of Conban-carglas. There
he laid the helmet of kings, and called the maid of
Lulan ; but she was distant far in Loda's resounding
hall.
Swelling in his rage, he strode to where Fingal lay
alone. The king was laid on his shield, on his own
secret hill.
202 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN.
Stern hunter of shaggy boars ! no feeble maid is lai<
before thee. No boy on his ferny bed, by Turtbor's
murmuring stream. Here is spread the couch of the
mighty, from which they rise to deeds of death ! Hunt-
er of shaggy boars, awaken not the terrible !
Starno came murmuring on. Fingal arose in arms.
" Who art thou, son of night !" Silent he threw the
spear. They mixed their gloomy strife. The shield
of Starno fell, cleft in twain. He is bound to an oak.
The early beam arose. It was then Fingal beheld the
king. He rolled awhile his silent eyes. He thought
of other days, when white-bosomed Agandecca moved
like the music of songs. He loosed the thong from his
hands. Son of Annir, he said, retire. Retire to Gor-
mal of shells ; a beam that was set returns. I remem-
ber thy white-bosomed daughter ; dreadful king, away !
Go to thy troubled dwelling, cloudy foe of the lovely !
Let the stranger shun thee, thou gloomy in the hall !
A tale of the times of old !
COMALA,
A DRAMATIC POEM.
ARGUMENT.
This poen. is valuable on account of the light it throws on the an-
tiquity of Ossian-s compositions. The Caracul mentioned here
is the same with Caracalla, the son of Severus, who, in the year
211, commanded an expedition against the Caledonians. The
variety of the measure shows that the poem was originally set to
music, and perhaps presented before the chiefs upon solemn
occasions. Tradition has handed down the story more complete
than it is in the poem. '' Comala, the daughter of Samo, king
of Inistore, or Omney Islands, fell in love with Fingalj the son
of Comhal, at a feast, to which her father had invited him [Fin-
gal, B. III.] upon his return liom Lochlin, after the death of
Agandecca. Her passion was so violent, that she followed him,
disguised Uke a youth, who v.'anted 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 reconoinended her so much to
the king, that lie had resolved to make her his wife ; when news
was brought him of Caracul's expedition. He marched to stop
the progress of the enemy, and Comala attended him. He left
her on a hill, within sight of Caracul's army, when he himself
went to battle, having previously promised, if he survived, to
return that night." The sequel of the story may be gathered
from the poem itself
The Persons.
FiNGAL. Melilcoma, } Daughters
Hidallan. Dersagrena, \ ofMorni.
Comala. Bards.
Dersagrena. The chase is over. No noise on
Erdven but the torrent's roar ! Daughter of Morni,
come from Crona's banks. Lay down the bow and
take the harp. Let the night come on with songs ;
let our joy be great on Ardven.
Melilcoma. Night comes on apace, thou blue-eyed
maid ! gray night grows dim along the plain, I saw a
204 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN.
deer at Crona's stream ; a mossy bank he seemed
through the gloom, but soon he bounded away. A
meteor played round his brandling horns ; the awful
faces of other times looked from the clouds of Crona.
Dersagrena. These are the signs of Fingal's death.
The king of shields is fallen ! and Caracul prevails.
Rise, Comala, from thy rock ; daughter of Sarno, rise
in tears ! the youth of thy love is low ; his ghost is on
our hills.
Melilcoma. There Comala sits forlorn ! two gray
dogs near shake their rough ears, and catch the flying
breeze. Her red cheek rests upon her arm, the moun-
tain wind is in her hair. She turns her blue eyes
towards the fields of his promise. Where art thou, O
Fingal ? The night is gathering around.
Comala. O Carun of the streams ! why do I behold
thy waters rolling in blood ? Has the noise of the
battle been heard ; and sleeps the king of Morven ?
Rise, moon, thou daughter of the sky ! look from 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 show me the way to my
fallen hero. Who will defend me from sorrow ? Who
from the love of Hidallan 1 Long shall Comala look
before she can behold Fingal in the midst of his host ;
bright as the coming forth of the morning in the cloud
of an early shower.
Hidallan. Dwell, thou mist of gloomy Crona, dwell
on the path of the king ! Hide his steps from mine
eyes, let me remember my friend no more. The
bands of battle are scattered, no crowding tread is
round the noise of his steel. O Carun ! roll thy
streams of blood, the chief of the people is low.
Comala. Who fell on Carun's sounding banks, son
of the cloudy night ? Was he white as the snow of
COM ALA. 1205
Ardven ? Blooming as the bow of the shower ? Was
his hair like the mist of the hill, soft and curling in the
day of the sun ? Was he like the thunder of heaven
in battle ? Fleet as the roe of the desert ?
Hidallan. O that I might behold his love, fair-
leaning from her rock ! Her red eye dim in tears,
her blushing cheek half hid in her locks ! Blow, O
gentle breeze ! lift thou the heavy locks of the maid,
that I may behold her white arm, her lovely cheek in
her grief.
Comala. And is the son of Comhal fallen, chief of
the mournful tale ! The thunder rolls on the hill !
The lightning flies on wings of fire ! They frighten
not Comala; for Fingal is low. Say, chief of the
mournful tale, fell the breaker of the shields ?
Hidallan. The nations are scattered on their hills !
they shall hear the voice of the king no more.
Comala. Confusion pursue thee over thy plains !
Ruin overtake thee, thou king of the world ! Few be
thy steps to thy grave ; and let one virgin mourn thee !
Let her be like Comala, tearful in the days of her
youth ! Why hast thou told me, Hidallan, that my
hero fell 1 I might have hoped a little while his re-
turn ; I might have thought I saw him on the distant
rock : a tree might have deceived me with his appear-
ance ; 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 his
breast, that Comala may behold him in the light of his
armor.
Comala. Stop, ye sons of the grave, till I behold
my love ! He left me at the chase alone. I knew not
tha,t he went to war. He said he would return with
18
206 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN.
the night; the king of Morven is returned! Why
didst thou not tell me that he would fall, O trembling
dweller of the rock ?* Thou sawcst him in the blood
of his youth ; but thou didst not tell Comala.
Melilcoma. What sound is that on Ardven ? Who
is that bright in the vale ? Who comes like the
strength of rivers, when their crowded waters glitter to
the moon ?
ComaJa. Who is it but the foe of Comala, the son
of the king of the world ! Ghost of Fingal ! do thou,
from thy cloud, direct Comala's bow. Let him fall
like the hart of the desert. It is Fingal in the crowd
of his ghosts. Why dost thou come, my love, to
frighten and please my soul ?
Fingal. Raise, ye bards, the song ; raise the wars
of the streamy Carun ! Caracul has fled from our
arms along the field of his pride. He sets far distant
like a meteor, that encloses a spirit of night, when the
winds drive it over the heath, and the dark woods are
gleaming around. I heard a voice, or was it the breeze
of my hills ? Is it the huntress of Ardven, the white-
handed daughter of Sarno ? Look from the rocks, my
love ; let me hear the voice of Comala !
Comala, Take me to the cave of thy rest, O lovely
son of death '
Fingal. Come to the cave of my rest. The storm
is past, the sun is on our fields. Come to the cave of
my rest, huntress of echoing Ardven !
Comala. He is returned with his fame ! I feel the
right hand of his wars ! But I must rest beside the
rock till my soul returns from my fear ! O let the
harp be near ! raise the song, ye daughters of Morna.
Dersagrena. Comala has slain three deer on Ard-
* By the '* dweller of the rock" she means a Druid.
COM A LA. 207
veil, the fire ascends on the rock ; go to the feast of
Comala, king of the woody Morven !
Fi7igaL 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
Lochlin. Roll, streamy Carun, roll in joy, the sons
of battle fled !
Melilcoma. Descend, ye light mists from high !
Ye moonbeams, lift her soul ! Pale lies the maid at
the rock ! Comala is no more !
Fingal. Is the daughter of Sarno dead ; the white-
bosomed maid of my love ? Meet me, Comala, on
my heaths, when I sit alone at the streams of my hills.
Hidallan. Ceased the voice of the huntress of
Ardven? why did I trouble the soul of the maid?
When shall I see thee, with joy, in the chase of the
dark-brown hinds ?
Fingal. Youth of the gloomy brow ! No more
shalt thou feast in my halls ! Thou shalt not pursue
my chase, my foes shall not fall by thy sword. Lead
me to the place of her rest, that I may behold her
beauty. Pale she lies as the rock, the cold winds lift
her hair. Her bow-string sounds in the blast, her
arrow was broken in her fall. Raise the praise of the
daughter of Sarno ! give her name to the winds of
heaven.
Bards. See ! meteors gleam around the maid !
See ! moonbeams lift her soul ! Around her, from
their clouds, bend the awful faces of her father j Sarno
20^ THE POEMS OF OSSIAN.
of the gloomy brow ! the red-rolling eyes of Fidallan !
When shall thy white hand arise ? When shall thy
voice be heard on our rocks ? The maids shall seek
thee on the heath, but they shall not find thee. Thou
shalt come, at times, to their dreams, to settle peace in
their soul. Thy voice shall remain in their ears, they
shall think with joy on the dreams of their rest. Me-
teors gleam around the maid, and moonbeams lift her
soul !
CARRIC-THURA.
ARGUMENT.
Finga., returning from an expedition which he had made into the
Roman province, resolved to visit CathnUa, king of Inistore, and
brother to Comala, whose story is related at large in the preced-
ing dramatic poem. Upon his coming in sight of Carric-thura,
the palace of CathuUa, he observed a flame on its top, which, in
those days, was a signal of distress. The wind drove him into a
bay, at some distance from Carric-thura, and he was obliged to
pass the night on shore. Next day he attacked the army of Fro-
thai, king of Sora, who had besieged CathuUa in his palace of
Carric-thura, and took Frothal himself prisoner, after hejiad en-
gaged him in a single combat. The deliverance of Carric-thura
IS the subject of the poem ; but several other episodes are inter-
woven 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 Ossum in opposition to
the Culdee's doctrine. Be this as it will, it lets us into Ossian'a
notions of a superior Bein^j and shows us that he was not ad-
dicted to the superstition which prevailed all the world over, be-
fore the introduction of Christianity.
Hast thou left thy blue course in heaven, golden-haired
son of the sky ! The west opened its gates ; the bed
of thy repose is there. The waves come to behold thy
beauty. They lift their trennbling heads. They see
thee lovely in thy sleep ; they shrink away with fear.
Rest in thy shadowy cave, O sun ! lot thy return be in
joy.
But let a thousand lights arise to the sound of the
harps of Selma : let the beam spread in the hall, the
king of shells is returned ! The strife of Crona is past,
like sounds that are no more. Raise the song, O
bards ! the king is returned with his fame !
Such were the words of Ullin, when Fingal returned
from war ; when he returned in the fair blushing of
youth with all his heavy locks. His blue arms were
18*
210 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN.
on the hero ; like a light cloud on the sun, when he
moves in his robes of mist, and shows but half his
beams. His heroes followed the king : the feast of
shells is spread. Fingal turns to his bards, and bids
the song to rise.
Voices of echoing Cona ! he said ; O bards of other
times ! Ye, on whose souls the blue host of our fathers
rise ! strike the harp in my hall : and let me hear the
song. Pleasant is the joy of grief; it is like the
shower of spring when it softens the branch of the oak,
and the young leaf rears its green head. Sing on, O
bards ! to-morrow we lift the sail. My blue course is
through the ocean, to Carric-thura's walls ; the mossy
walls of Sarno, where Comala dwelt. There the noble
CathuUa spreads the feast of shells. The boars of his
woods are many; the sound of the chase shall arise !
Cronnan, son of the song ! said Ullin ; Minona,
graceful at the harp ! raise the tale of Shilric, to please
the king of Morven. Let Vinvela come in her beauty,
like the showery bow, when it shows its lovely head
on the lake, and the setting sun is bright. She comes,
O Fingal ! her voice is soft, but sad.
Vinvela. My love is a son of the hill. He pursues
the flying deer. His gray dogs are panting around
him ; his bow-string sounds in the wind. Dost thou
rest by the fount of the rock, or by the noise of the
mountain stream ? The rushes are nodding to the wind,
the mist flies over the hill. I will approach my love
unseen ; I will behold him from the rock. Lovely I
saw thee first by the aged oak of Branno ; thou wert
returning tall from the chase ; the fairest among thy
friends.
Shilric. What voice is that I hear ? that voice like
the summer wind ! I sit not by the nodding rushes ; I
hear not the fount of the rock. Afar, Vinvela, afar, 1
go to the wars of Fingal. My dogs attend me no
CARRIC-THURA. 211
more. No more I tread the hill. No more from on
high I see thee, fair moving by the stream of the plain ;
bright as the bow of heaven; as the moon on the
western wave.
Vinvela. Then thou art gone, O Shilric ! I am
alone on the hill ! The deer are seen on the brow : void
of fear they graze along. No more they dread the
wind ; no more the rustling tree. The hunter is far
removed, he is in the field of graves. Strangers ! sons
of the waves ! spare my lovely Shilric !
Shilric. If fall I must in the field, raise high my
grave, Vinvela. Gray stones, and heaped up earth,
shall mark me to future times. When the hunter shall
sit by the mound, and produce his food at noon, "some
warrior rests here," he will say ; and my fame shall
live in his praise. Remember me, Vinvela, when low
on earth I lie !
Vinvela. Yes ! I will remember thee ! alas ! my
Shilric Vvill fall ! What shall I do, my love, when thou
art for ever gone 1 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 v.'ill fall ; but I will remember
Shilric.
And I remember the chief, said the king of woody
Morven ; he consumed the battle in his rage. But
now my eyes behold him not. I met him one day on
the hill ; his cheek was pale : his brow was dark. The
sigh was frequent in his breast : his steps were towards
the desert. But now he is not in the crowd of my
chiefsj when the sounds of my shields arise. Dwells
he in the narrow house,* the chief of high Carmora 1
Cronnan ! said Ullin of other times, raise the song
df Shilric ! when he returned to his hills, and Vinvela
* The grave.
212 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN.
was no more. He leaned on her gray mossy stone ;
he thought Vinvela Hved. He saw her fair moving on
the plain ; but the bright form lasted not : the sunbeam
fled from the field, and she was seen no more. Hear
the song of Shilric ; it is soft, but sad !
I sit by the mossy fountain ; on the top of the hill of
winds. One tree is rustling above me. Dark waves
roll over the heath. The lake is troubled below. The
deer descend from the hill. No hunter at a distance
is seen. It is mid-day : but all is silent. Sad are my
thoughts alone. Didst thou but appear, O my love ? a
wanderer on the heath ? thy hair floating on the wind
behind thee ; thy bosom heaving on the sight ; thine
eyes full of tears for thy friends, whom the mists of the
hill had concealed ? Thee I would comfort, my love,
and bring thee to thy father's house ?
But is it she that there appears, like a beam of ligVit
on the heath? bright as the moon in autumn, as the
sun in a summer storm, comest thou, O maid, over
rocks, over mountains, to me ? She speaks : but how
weak her voice ! like the breeze in the reeds of the
lake.
" Returnest thou safe from the war ? Where are thy
friends, my love ? I heard of thy death on the hill ; I
heard and mourned thee, Shilric ! Yes, my fair, I 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 ?
" Alone I am, O Shilric! alone in the winter-house.
With grief for thee I fell. Shilric, I am pale in the
tomb."
She fleets, she sails away ; as mist before the wind '
and wilt thou not stay, Vinvela ? Stay, and behold my
tears ! Fair thou appearest, Vinvela ! fair thou wasU
when alive !
CARRIC-THURA. 213
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 Sel-
ma's joy. But morning rose in the east ; the blue
waters rolled in light. Fingal bade his sails to rise ;
the winds came rustling from their hills. Inistore rose
to sight, and Carric-thura's mossy towers ! But the sign
of distress was on their top : the warning flame edged
with smoke. The king of Morven struck his breast:
he assumed at once his spear. His darkened brow
bends forward to the coast : he looks back to the lag-
ging winds. His hair is disordered on his back. The
silence of the king is terrible !
Night came down on the sea : Rotha's bay received
the ship. • A rock bends along the coast with all its
echoing wood. On the top is the circle of Loda, the
mossy stone of power ! A narrow plain spreads beneath
covered with grass and aged trees, which the midnight
winds, in their wrath, had torn from their shaggy rock.
The blue course of a stream is there ! the lonely blast
of ocean pursues the thistle's beard. The flame of
three oaks arose : the feast is spread round ; but the
soul of the king is sad, for Carric-thura^s chief distrest.
The wan cold moon rose in the east. Sleep de-
scended on the youths ! Their blue helmets glitter to
the beam ; the fading fire decays. But sleep did not
rest on the king : he rose in the midst of his arms, and
slowly ascended the hill, to behold the flame of Sarno's
tower.
The flame was dim and distant ; the moon hid her
red face in tiie 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
314 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN.
eyes appear like flames in his dark face ; his voice ia
like distant thunder. Fingal advanced his spear in
night, and raised his voice on high.
Son of night, retire ; call thy winds, and fly ! Why
dost thou come to my presence, with thy shadowy arms?
Do I fear thy gloomy form, spirit of dismal Loda!
Weak is thy shield of clouds ; feeble is that meteor,
thy sword ! The blast rolls them together ; and thou
thyself art lost. Fly from my presence, son of night !
call thy winds, and fly!
Dost thou force me from my place ? replied the hol-
low voice. The people bend before me. I turn the
battle in the field of the brave. I look on the nations,
and they vanish : my nostrils pour the blasts of death.
I come abroad on the v/inds ; 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 1 meet thee with a
spear on thy cloud, spirit of dismal Loda ? Why then
dost thou frown on me ? Why shake thine airy spear?
Thou frownest in vain : I never fled from the mighty
in war. And shall the sons of the wind frighten the
king of Morven ? No ! he knows the weakness of their
arms
Fly to thy land, replied the form : receive thy wind
and fly ? The blasts are in the hollow of my hand ; the
course of the storm is mine. The king of Sora is m}
son, he bends at the stone of my power. His battle ir
around Carric-thura ; and he will prevail ! Fly to thy
land, son of Comhal, or feel my flaming wrath.
He lifted high his shadowy spear ! He bent forward
his dreadful height. Fingal, advancing, drew his
sword ; the blade of dark-brown Luno. The gleam-
ing path of the steel winds through the gloomy ghost.
CARRIC-TIIURA. 215
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
\heir course with fear ; the friends of Fingal started at
once, and took their heavy spears. They missed the
*iing : 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 be-
neath a tree. The host spreads around Carric-thura.
He looks towards the walls with rage. He longs for
the blood of Cathulla, who once overcame him in v/ar.
When Annir reigned in Sora, the father of sea-borne
Frothal, a storm arose on the sea, and carried Frothal
to Inistore. Three days he feasted in Sarno's halls, and
saw the slow-rolling eyes of Comala. He loved her in
the flame of youth, and rushed to seize the white-armed
maid. Cathulla met the chief. The gloomy battle
arose. Frothal was bound in the hall : three days he
pined alone. On the forth, Sarno sent him to his ship,
and he returned to his land. But wrath darkened in
his soul against the noble Cathulla. When Annir's
stone of fame arose, Frothal came in his strength.
The battle burned round Carric-thura and Sarno's
mossy walls.
Morning rose on Inistore. Frothal struck his dark-
brown shield. His chiefs started at the sound; they
stood, but their eyes were turned to the sea. They
saw Fingal coming in his strength ; and first the noble
216 THE POEMS OF OSSlAN.
Thubar spoke, " Who comes, like the stag of the desert,
with all his herd behind him ? Frothal, it is a foe I 1
see his forward spear. Perhaps it is the king of Moi*-
ven, Fingal the first of men. His deeds are well known
in Lochlin ! the blood of his foes is in Sarno's halls.
Shall I ask the peace of kings ? His sword is the bolt
of heaven !"
Son of the feeble hand, said Frothal, shall my days
begin in a cloud ? Shall I yield before I have conquered,
chief of streamy Tora ? The people would say in Sora,
Frothal flew forth like a meteor ; but a darkness has
met him, and his fame is no more. No, Thubar, I will
never yield ; my fame shall surround me like light.
No : I will never yield, chief of streamy Tora !
He went forth with the stream of his people, but they
met a rock ; Fingal stood unmoved, broken they rolled
back from his side. Nor did they safely fly ; the spear
of the king pursued their steps. The field is covered
with heroes. A rising hill preserved the foe.
Fi'othal saw their flight. The rage of his bosom
rose. He bent his eyes to the ground, and called the
Moble Thubar. Thubar ! my people are fled. My
fame has ceased to rise. I will fight the king ; I feel
my burning soul ! Send a bard to demand the combat.
Speak not against Frothal's words ! But, Thubar ! I
love a maid ; she dwells by Thano's stream, the white-
bosomed daughter of Herman, Utha, with soft-rolling
eyes. She feared the low-laid Comala ; her secret
sighs rose when I spread the sail. Tell to Utha of
harps that my soul delighted in her.
Such were his words, resolved to fight. The soil
sigh of Utha was near ! She had followed her hero in
the armor of a man. She rolled her eye on the youth,
in secret, from beneath her steel. She saw the bard
as he went ; the spear fell thrice from her hand ! Her
loose hair flew on the wind. Her white breast rose
CARRIC-THURA. 217
witn signs. She raised her eyes to the king. She
would speak, but thrice she failed.
Fingal heard the words of the bard ; he came in the
strength of his steel. They mixed their deathful spears :
hey 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 '<«ear
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 ? But he was low before the
mighty, maid of the slow-rolling eye ! The feeble did
not overcome the son of car-borne Annir ! Terrible art
thou, O king of Morven ! in battles of the spear. But,
in peace, thou art like the sun when he looks through
a silent shower ; the flowers lift their fair heads before
him ; the gales shake their rustling wings. O that thou
* Frothal and Uthft
19
218 THE POEMS or OSSIAN.
wert in Sora ! that my feast were sipread ! The futuro
kings of Sora would see thy arms and rejoice. They
would rejoice at the fame of their fathers, who beheld
the mighty Fingal !
Son of Annir, replied the king, the fame of Sora's
race shall be heard ! When chiefs are strong in war,
then does the song arise ! But if their swords are
stretched over the feeble ; if the blood of the weak has
stained tiieir arms ; the bard shall forget them in the
song, and their tombs shall not be known. The stran-
ger shall come and build there, and remove the heaped-
up earth. An half-worn sword shall rise before him ;
bending above it, he will say, " These are the arms of
the chiefs of old, but their names are not in song."
Come thou, O Frothal ! to the feast of Inistore : let the
maid of thy love be there ; let our faces brighten with
joy-'
Fingal took his spear, moving in the steps of his
might. The gates of Carric-thura are opened wide.
The feast of shells is spread. The soft sound of music
arose. Gladness brightened in the hall. The voice
of Ullin was heard ; the harp of Selma was strung.
Utha rejoiced in his presence, and demanded the song
of grief; the big tear hung in her eye when the soft
Crimora spoke. Crimora, the daughter of Rinval, who
dwelt at Lotha's roaring stream ! The tale was long,
but lovely ; and pleased the blushing Utha.
Crimora. Who cometh from the hill, like a cloud
tinged with the beam of the west ? Whose voice is
that, loud as the wind, but pleasant as the harp of Car-
ril ? It is my love in the light of steel ; but sad is his
darkened brow ! Live the mighty race of Fingal ? or
what darkens Connal's soul ?
Connal. They live. They return from the chase
like a stream of light. The sun is on their shields.
Like a ridge of fire they descend the hill. Loud is the
CARRIC-THURA. 210
voico of the youth ! the war, my love, is near ! To-
morrow the dreadful Dargo comes to try the force of
our race. The race of Fingal he defies ; the race of
battles and wounds ! *
Crimora. Connal, I saw his sails like gray mist on
the dark-brown wave. They slowly came to land.
Connal, many are the warriors of Dargo.
Connal. Bring me thy father's shield, the bossy iron
shield of Rinval ! that shield like the full-orbed moon,
when she moves darkened through heaven.
Crimora. That shield I bring, Connal ! but it did
not defend my father. By the spear of Gormar he fell.
Thou mayst fall, O Connal !
Connal. Fall I may ! but raise my tomb, Crimora!
Gray stones, a mound of earth, shall send my name to
other times. Bend thy red eye over my grave, beat
thy mournful heaving breast. Though fair thou art,
my love, as the light ; more pleasant than the gale of
the hill ; yet I will not hear remain. Raise my tomb,
Crimora !
Crimora. Then give me those arms that gleam ;
that sword and that spear of steel. I shall meet Dargo
with Connal, and aid him in the fight. Farewell, ye
rocks of Ardven ! ye deer ! and ye streams of the hill !
We shall return no more ! Our tombs are distant far !
"And did they return no more ?" said Utha's burst-
ing sigh. " Fell the mighty in battle, and did Crimora
live 1 Her steps were lonely ; her soul was sad for
Connal. Was he not young and lovely ; like the beam
of the setting sun 1 Ullin saw the virgin's tear, he took
the softly trembling harp ; the song was lovely, but sad,
and silence was in Carric-thura.
Autumn is dark on the mountains ; gray mist rests
on the hills. The whirlwind is heard on the heath.
Dark rolls the river through the narrow plain. A tree
stands alone on the hill, and marks the slumbering
220 TIIK POKMS OV OSSIAN.
Connal. Tho leaves whirl round with tlie wind, and
strew the grave of the dead. At times are seen here
the ghosts of the departed, when the musing hunter
alone stalks slowly over the heath.
Who can reach the source of thy race, O Connal !
who recount thy fathers ? Thy family grew like an oak
on the mountain, which meeteth the wind with its lofty
head. But now it is torn from the earth. Who shall
supply the place of Connal ? Here was the din of arms ;
here the groans of the dying. Bloody are the wars of
Fingal, O Connal ! it was here thou didst fall. Thine
arm was like a storm ; thy sword a beam of the sky ;
thy height a rock on the plain ; thine eyes a furnace of
fire. Louder than a storm was thy voice, in the battles
of thy steel. Warriors fell by thy sword, as the thistles
by the staff of a boy. Dargo the mighty came on,
darkened in his rage. His brows were gathered into
wrath. His eyes like two caves in a rock. Bright
rose their swords on each side ; loud was the clang of
their steel.
The daughter of Rinval was near ; Crimora bright
m the armor of man ; her yellow hair is loose behind,
her bow is in her hand. She followed the youth to the
war, Connal her much-beloved. She drew the string
on Dargo ; but, erring, she pierced her Connal. He
falls like an oak on the plain ; like a rock from the
shaggy hill. What shall she do, hapless maid ? He
bleeds ; her Connal dies ! All the night long she cries,
and all the day, "O Connal, my love, and my friend !'*
With grief the sad mourner dies ! Earth here encloses
the loveliest pair on the hill. The grass grows between
the stones of the tomb: I often sit iii the mournful shade.
The wind sighs through the grassy their memory rushes
on my mind. Undisturbed you now sleep together ;
in the tomb of the mountain you rest alone !
And soft be their rest, said Utha, hapless children of
CARRIC-THURA. 221
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-bo-
somed sails. The wounds of his form were not for-
gotten ! he still feared the hand of the king !
19*
CARTHON.
ARGUMENT.
This poem is complete, and the subject of it, as of most of Ossian*B
compositions, tragical. In the time of Corahal, the son of Tra-
thal, and father of ihe celebrated Fingal, Clessammor, the son of
Thaddu, and brother of Morna, Fingal's mother, was driver by a
storm into the river Clyde, on the banks of which stood Balclutha,
a town belonging to the Britons, between the walls. He was
hospitably received by lleuthamir, the principal man in the place,
who gave him Moina, his only daughter, in marriage. Reudo,
the son of Cormo, a Briton, who was in love with Moina, came
to Reuthamir's house, and behaved haughtily to\yards Clessam-
mor. A quarrel ensued, in which Reuda was killed ; the Brit-
ons who attended him, pressed so hard on Clessammor, that he
was obliged to throw himself into the Clyde and swim to his ship.
He hoisted .^^ail, and the wind being favorable, bore him out to
sea. He olten endeavored to return, and carry off his beloved
Moina by night ; but the wind continuing contrary, he was forced
to desist.
Moina, who had been left with child by her husband, brought forth
a son, and died .socn after. Reuthamir named the child Carthon,
i. e., "the murmur of waves," from the storm which carried ofl'
Clessammor his father, who was supposed to have been cast
away. When Carthon was three years old, Comhal, the father
of Fmgal, in one of his expeditions against the Britons, took and
burnt Balclulha. Reuthamir was killed in the attack ; and Car-
thon 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 pos-
terity. He set sail from the Clyde, and faUing on the coast of
Moi-ven, defeated two of Fingal's heroes, who came to oppose his
progress. He was, at last, unwittingly killed by his father Cles-
sammor, in a single combat. This story is the foundation of the
present poem, which opens on the night preceding the death of
Carthon. so that what passed before is introduced by way of epi-
sode. The poem is addressed to Malvina, the daughter of Toscar.
A TALE of the times of ok] ! The dccd.s of clays of
other years.
The murmur of thy streams, O Lora ! brings back
the memory of the past. The sound of thy woods,
Garmaller, is lovely in mine car. Dost thou not be-
CARTHON. 223
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, show their heads of
moss. The deer of the mountain avoids the place, for
he beholds a dim ghost standing there. The mighty
lie, O Malvina ! in the narrow plain of the rock.
•A tale of the times of old ! The deeds of days of
other years !
Who comes from the land of strangers, with his
thousands around him ? The sunbeam pours its bright
stream before him ; his hair meets the wind of his hills.
His face is settled from war. He is calm as the even-
ing beam that looks from the cloud of the west, on
Cona's silent vale. Who is it but Comhal's son, the
king of mighty deeds ! He beholds the hills with joy,
he bids a thousand voices rise. "Ye have fled over
your fields, ye sons of the distant land ! The king of
the world sits in his hall, and hears of his people's
flight. He lifts his red eye of pride ; he takes his
father's sword. Ye have fled over your fields, sons of
the distant land !
Such were the words of the bards, when they came
to Selma's halls. A thousand lights from the stranger's
land rose in the midst of his people. The feast is
spread around ; the night passed away in joy. Where
is the noble 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 echo-
ing Lora : but, behold, he comes from the hill, like a
steed in his strength, who finds his companions in the
breeze, and tosses his bright mane in the wind. Blest
be the soul of Clessammor, why so long from Sclma?
Returns the chief, «aid Clessdmmor, in the midst of
224 thje; roEMs of ossian.
his fame? l^hr'wis Sie renown of Comhal in ike
battles of his youth. Oilen 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, ^^^v'^o ^ remember the times of our war?
My hail is rr.ixo^i with gray. My hand forgets to bend
the bow : I lift a lightei' ^ese^ O that my joy would
return, as when ^ first beheld the maid ; the white-
bosomed daughter of strangers, Moina, with the dark-
blue eyes !
Tell, said the mighty Fingal, the tale of thy youthful
days. Sorrow, like a cloud on the sun, shades the soul
of Clessammor. Mournful are thy thoughts, alone, on
the banks of the xpq^ring Lora. Let us hear the sor-
row of thy youth anc[ the darkness of thy days !
" It was in the days of peace," replied the great Cles-
sammor, " I came in my bounding ship to Balclutha's
walls of towers. The winds had roared behind my
sails, and Clutha's streams received my dark-bosomed
ship. Three days I remained in Reuthamir's halls,
and saw his daughter, that beam of light. The joy of
the shell went round, and the aged hero gave the fair.
Her breasts were like foam on the waves, and her eyes
like stars of light ; her hair was dark as the raven's
wing : her soul was generous and mild. My love for
Moina was great ; my heart poured forth in joy.
" The son of a stranger came ; a chief who loved
the white-bosomed Moina. His words were mighty in
the hall ; he often half-unsheathed his sword. ' Where,'
said he, ' is the mighty Comhal, the restless wanderer
of the heath ? Comes he, with his host, to Balclutha,
since 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 Cles-
sammor is alone. But mv sword trembles by my siile,
CARTHON. 225
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 Chr.lia 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, dis-
tant cries. Often did I turn my ship ; but the winds
of the east prevailed. Nor Clutha ever since have I
seen, nor Moina of the dark-brown hair. She fell in
Balclutha, for I have seen her ghost. I knew her as
she came through the dusky night, along the murmur
of Lora : she was like the new moon, seen through the
gathered mist; when the sky pours down its flaky
snow, and the world is silent and dark."
Raise, ye bards, said the mighty Fingal, the praise
of unhappy Moina. Call her ghost, with your songs,
to our hills, that she may rest with the fair of Morven,
the sunbeams of other days, the delight of heroes of
old. I have seen the walls of Balclutha, but they were
desolate. The fire had resounded in the halls : and
the voice of the people is heard no more. The stream
of Clutha was removed from its place by the fall of the
walls. The thistle shook there its lonely head: the
moss whistled to the wind. The fox looked out from
the windows, the rank grass of the wall waved round
its head. Desolate is the dwelling of Moina, silence is
in the house of her fathers. Raise the song of mourn-
ing, O bards, over the land of strangers. They have
but fallen before us : for one day we must fall. Why
dost thou build the hall, son of the winged days ? Thou
lookest from thy towers to-day : yet a few years, and
the blast of the desert comes; it howls in thy empty
226 THE rOEML OF OSSIAN.
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 Fin-
gal ; our fame shall survive thy beams.
Such was the song of Fingal in the day of his joy.
His thousand bards leaned forward from their seats, to
hear the voice of the king. It was like the music of
harps on the gale of the spring. Lovely were thy
thoughts, O Fingal ! why had not Ossian the strength
of thy soul ? But thou standest alone, my father ! who
can equal the king of Selma ?
The night passed away in song ; morning returned
in joy. The mountains showed their gray heads ; the
blue face of ocean smiled. The white wave is seen
tumbling round the distant rock ; a mist rose slowly
from the lake. It came, in the figure of an aged man,
along the silent plain. Its large limbs did not move in
steps, for a ghost supported it in mid air. It came
towards Selma's hall, and dissolved in a shower of
blood.
The king alone beheld the sight ; he foresaw the
death of the people. He came in silence to his hall,
and took his father's spear. The mail rattled on his
breast. The heroes rose around. They looked in
silence on each other, marking the eyes of Fingal.
They saw battle in his face ; the death of armies on
his spear. A thousand shields at once are placed on
their arms ; they drew a thousand swords. The hall
of Selma brightened around. The clang of arms 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 his spear.
CARTHON. 227
Sons of Morven, began the king, this is no time to
fill the shell ; the battle darkens near us, death hovers
over the land. Some ghost, the friend of Fingal, has
forewarned us of the foe. The sons of the stranger
come from the darkly rolling sea ; for from the water
came the sign of Morven's gloomy danger. Let each
assume his heavy spear, each gird on his father's sword.
Let the dark helmet rise on every head ; the mail pour
its lightning from every side. The battle gathers like
a storm ; soon shall ye hear the roar of death.
The hero moved on before his host, like a cloud 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 be-
held a distant fleet. Like the mist of ocean they came
and poured their youth upon the coast. The chief was
among them, like the stag in the midst of the herd.
His shield is studded with gold ; stately strode the king
of spears. He moved towards Selma ; his thousands
moved behind.
Go, with a song of peace, said Fingal : go, Ullin, to
the king of swords. Tell him that we are mighty in
war ; that the ghosts of our foes are many. But re-
nowned are they who have feasted in my halls ; they
show the arms of my fathers in a foreign land ; the
sons of the strangers wonder, and bless the friends
of Morven's race ; for our nanies have been heard
afar : the kings of the world shook in the midst of their
host.
Ullin went with his song. Fingal rested on his
spear : he saw the mighty foe in his armor : he blest
the stranger's son. " How stately art thou, son of tho
228 IHE POEMS OF OSSIAK.
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 stran-
ger will be sad, looking to the rolling sea : the children
will say, ' We see a ship ; perhaps it is the king of
Balclutha.' The tear starts from their mother's eye :
her thoughts are of him who sleeps in Morven !"
Such were the words of the king when Ullin came to
the mighty Car then : he threw down the spear before
him, he raised the song of peace. "Come to the feast
of Fingai, Carthon, from the rolling sea ! partake of the
feast of the king, or lift the" spear of war ! The ghosts
of our foes are many : but renowned are the friends of
Morven ! Behold that field, O Carthon ! many a green
hill rises there, with mossy stones and rustling grass ;
these are the tombs of Fingal's foes, the sons of the
rolling sea !"
" Dost thou speak to the weak in arms !" said 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 Fingai. Have
not I seen the fallen Balclutha ? And shall I feast with
Comhal's son ? Comhal, who threw his fire in the midst of
my father's hall ? I was young, and knew not the cause
why the virgins wept. The columns of smoke pleased
mine eye, when they rose above my walls ! I often
looked back with gladness when my frie.^ds 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
CARTHON. 229
of my foes ? And I will fightj O bard ! 1 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 be-
fore his fame shall arise ! But the bard hereafter may
say, when he sees the tomb of Carthon, Fingal took
his thousands to battle, before the noble Carthon fell.
No : bard of the times to come ! thou shalt not lessen
Fingal's fame ! my heroes will fight the youth, and
Fingal behold the war. If he overcomes, I rush, in
my strength, like the roaring stream of Cona. Who
of my chiefs will meet the son of the rolling sea ? Many
are his warriors on the coast, and strong is his ashen
spear !
Cathul rose in his strength, the son of the mighty
Lormar : three hundred youths attend the chief, the
race of his native streams. Feeble was his arm against
Carthon : ho fell, and his heroes fled. Connal resumed
tlie 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 ? Wilt thou behold Connal bound :
thy friend at the stream of Lora ? Rise, in the light of
thy steel, companion of valiant Comhal ! let the youth
of Balclutha feel the strength of Morven's race. He
rose in the strength of his steel, shaking his grisly
locks. He fitted the steel to his side ; he rushed in
the pride of valor.
20
230 THE POEMS OF OSS ; AN.
Carthon stood on a rock : he saw the hero rushing
on. He loved the dreadful joy of his face : his strength
in the locks of age ! " Shall I lift that spear/' he said,
" that never strikes but once a foe ? Or shall I, with
the words of peace, preserve the warrior's life ? Stately
arc his steps of age ! lovely the remnant of his years !
Perhaps it is the husband of Moina, the father of car-
borne Carthon. Often have I heard that he dwelt at
the echoing stream of Lora."
Such were his words when 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 ?"
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. " I never yielded, king of
spears !" replied the noble pride of Carthon : " I have
also fought in war, I behold my future fame. Despise
me not, thou chief of men ! my arm, my spear is strong.
Retire among thy friends ; let younger heroes fight.''
Why dost thou wound my soul ? replied Clessammor,
with a tear. Age does not tremble on my hand. I still
can lift the sword. Shall I fly in Fingal's sight, in the
♦ To tell one's name to an enemy, was reckoned, in tliose days
of heroism, a manifest evasion ot" righting him ; for if it was once
known that friendsliip subsisted of old, between the ancestors of the
combatants, the battle immediately ceased, and the ancient amity
of their forefathers was renewed. " A man who tells his name to
his enemy," was of old an ignominious term for a coward.
f'AKTHO^. 231
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. lie
broke Clessammor's beamy spear in twain : he seized
his shining sword. But as Carthon was binding the
chief, the chief drew the dagger of his fathers. He
saw the foe's uncovered side, and opened there a
wound.
Fingal saw Clessammor low : he moved in the sound
of his steel. The host stood silent in his presence :
they turned their eyes to the king. He came like the
sullen noise of a storm before the winds arise : the
hunter hears it in the vale, and retires to the cave of
the rock. Carthon stood in his place, the blood is
rushing down his side : he saw the coming down of the
king, his hopes of fame arose, but pale was his cheek :
his hair flew loose, his helmet shook on high : the force
of Carthon failed, but his sword was strong.
Fingal beheld the hero's blood ; he stopt the uplifted
spear. " Yield, king of swords !" said Comhal's son,
'* 1 behold thy blood ; thou hast been mighty in battle,
and thy fame shall never fade." Art thou the king so
far renowned ? replied the car-borne Carthon : art thou
that light of death, that frightens the kings of the world ?
But why should Carthon ask 1 for he is like the stream
of his hills, strong as a river in his course, swift as the
eagle of heaven. that I had fought with the king,
that my fame might be great in song ! that the hunter,
behdding 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 desce.'id to future times. The children of years
232 THE rOEMS OF OSSIAN.
to come shall hear the fame of Carthon, ^>'hen they sit
round the burning oak, and the night is spent in songs
of old. The hunter, sitting in the heath, shall hear the
rustling blast, and raising his eyes, behold the rock
where Carthon fell. He shall turn to his son, and show
the place where the mighty fought : There the king
of Balclutha fought, like the strength of a thousand
streams."
Joy rose in Carthon's face ; he lifted his heavy eyes.
He gave his sword to Fingal, to lie within his hall, that
the memory of Balclutha's king might remain in Mor-
ven. The battle ceased along the field, the bard had
sung the song of peace. The chiefs gathered round
the falling Carthon ; they heard his words with sighs.
Silent they leaned on their spears, while Balclutha's
hero spoke. His hair sighed in the wind, and his voice
was sad and low.
" King of Morven," Carthon said, " I fall in the midst
of my course. A foreign tomb receives, in youth, the
last of Reuthamir's race. Darkness dwells in Bal-
clutha; the shadows of grief in Crathm.o. But raise
my remembrance on the banks of Lora, where my fa-
thers 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 mourn-
ful field ; but still they stood, like a silent grove that
lifts its head on Gormal, when the loud winds are laid,
and dark autumn is on the plain.
Three days they mourned above Carthon ; on the
fourth his father died. In the narrow plain of the rock
they lie ; a dim ghost defends their tomb. There
lovely Moina is often seen, when the sunbeam darts on
the rock, and all around is dark. There she is seen,
Malvina; but not like the daughters of the hill. Her-
CARTHON. 233
robes are from the stranger's land, and she is still
alone !
Fingal was sad for Carthon; he commanded his
bards to mark the day when shadowy autumn returned ;
and often did they mark the day, and sing the hero's
praise. " Who comes so dark from ocean's roar, like
autumn's shadowy cloud ? Death is trembling in his
hand ! his eyes are flames of fire ! Who roars along
darK Lord's heath ? Who but Carthon, king of swords !
The people fall ! see how he strides like the sullen
ghost of Morven ! But there he lies, a goodly oak which
sudden blasts overturned ! When shalt thou rise, Bal-
clutha's joy ? When, Carthon, shalt thou arise ? Who
comes so dark from ocean's roar, like autumn's shad-
owy cloud?" Such were the words of the bards in the
day of their mourning ; Ossian often joined their voice,
and added to their song. My soul has been mournful
for Carthon : he fell in the days of his youth ; and thou,
Clessammor ! where is thy dwelling in the wind ?
Has the youth forgot his wound ? Flies he on clouds
with thee '? I feel the sun, O Malvina ! leave me to my
rest. Perhaps they may come to my dreams : I think
1 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 everlast-
ing 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 mov-
est alone. Who can be a companion of thy course ?
The oaks of the mountains fall ; the mountains them-
selves 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 thv
"20*
234 THE I'OEMS OF OSSIAN.
beauty from the clouds, and laughest fit the storm,
But to Ossian thou lookest in vain, for he beholds thy
beams no more : whether thy yellow hair flows on the
eastern clouds, or thou tremblest at the gates of the
west. But thou art, perhaps, like me, for a season ;
thy years will have an end. Thou shalt sleep in thy
clouds, careless of the voice of the morning. Exult
then, O sun, in the strength of thy youth ! age is dark
and unlovely; it is like the glimmering light of the
moon, when it shines through broken clouds, and the
mist is on the hills : the blast of the north is on the
plain, the traveller shrinks in the midst of his journey.
OINA-MORUL.
ARGUMENT.
After an address tc Malvina, the daughter of Toacar, Ossian pro-
ceeds to relate his own expedition to Fuiirfed, an island of Scan-
dinavia. Mal-orchol, king of Fuarfed, being hard preyed in war
by Ton-thormod, chief of Sar-dronto (who had demanded in vain
the daughter of Mal-orchol in marriage,) Fingal sent Ossian to
his aid. Ossian, on the day after his arrival, came to battle with
Ton-thormod, and took him prisoner. Mal-orchol offers hia
daughter, Oina-morul, to Ossian ; but he, discovering her passion
for Ton-thormod, generously surrenders her to her lover, and
brings about a reconciUation between the two kings.
As flies the inconstant sun over Larmon's grassy
hill, so pass the tales of old along my soul by night !
When bards are removed to their place, when harps are
hung in Selma's hall, then comes a voice to Ossian,
and awakes his soul ! It is the voice of years that are
gone ! they i-oll 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, daugh-
ter of Toscar of helmets, wilt thou not hear the song ?
We call back, maid of Lutha, the years that have rolled
away ! It was in the days of the king, while yet my
locks were young, that I marked Con-cathlin* on high,
from ocean's nightly wave. My course was towards
the isle of Fuarfed, woody dweller of seas ! Fingal had
sent me to the aid Mal-orchol, king of Fuarfed wild :
* Con-cathUn, "mild beam of the wave." What star was so
called of old is not easily a.flA **
J
riJNGAL- :
AN ANCIENT EPIC POEM.
BOOK I.
ARGUBIENT.
Cuthullin (general of the Irish tribes, in the minority of Cannae,
king of Ireland) sitting alone beneath a tree, at the gate ofTura,
a castle of Ulster (the other chiefs having gone on a hunting
party to Cromla, a neighboring hill,) is informed of the landing of
Swaran, king of Lochlin, bv Moran, the son of Fithil, one otliia
ficouts. He convenes the cliiefs ; a council is held, and disiputes
run high about givin^ battle to the enemy. Connel, the petty-
king of Togorma, and an intimate friend of CuthuUin, was for
fretreeting, till Fingal, king of those Caledonians who inhabited
the northwest coast of Scotland, whose aid had been previously
sohcited, should arrive ; but Calmar, the son of Matha, lord of
Lara, a country in Connaught, was for engaging the enemy im-
mediately. Cuthuliin, of himself willing to Tignt, went into the
opinion of Calmar. Marching towards the enemy, he missed
three of his bravest heroes, Fergus, Duchomar, and Cathba.
Fergus arriving, tells Cuthullin ot' the death of the two other
chiefs: which introduces the aflecting episode of Morna, the
daughter of Cormac. The army of Cuthulhn 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 A'lno returning to Swaran, describes
to him CnthuU^n's chariot, and the terrible appearance of that
hero. The armies engage, but night coming on, leaves the vic-
tory undecided. CutHuUin, 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. Carrii re-
lates to Cuthulhn the story of Grudar and Brassohs. A party, by
Connal's advice, is sent to observe the enemy ; which closes the
action of the first day.
Cuthullin sat by Tura's wall ; b}/' the tree of the
rustUng sound. His spear leaned against the rock.
His shield lay on the grass by his side. Amid his
thoughts of mighty Cai/bar, a hero slain by the chief
2B*
294 THE roEMs of osstan.
in war ; the scout of ocean comes, Moian the son of
Fithil !
" Arise," said the youth, " CuthuUin, arise. I see
the ships of the north ! Many, cliief of men, are the
foe. Many the heroes of the sea-borne Swaran !" —
" Moran !'' replied the blue-eyed chief, " thou ever
tremblest, son of Fithil ! Thy fears have increased
the foe. It is Fingal, king of deserts, with aid to green
Erin of streams." — " 1 beheld their chief," says Moran,
" tall as a glittering rock. His spear is a blasted pine.
His shield the rising moon ! He sat on the shore !
like a cloud of mist on the silent hill ! Man}^, 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 fisht ? Who but Fingal, kinc; of Sel-
ma of storms ? Once we wrestled on Maimer ; our
heels ovcrtarned the woods. Rocks fell from their
place ; rivulets, changing their course, fled murmuring
from our side. Three days vv^e renewed the strife ;
heroes stood at a distance and trembled. On the
fourth, Fingal says, that the king of the ocean fell !
but Swaran says he stood ! Lot dark Cuthullin yield
to him, that is strong as the storms of his land !' "
" No !" replied the blue-eyed chief, " I never yield
to mortal man ' Dark Cuthullin shall be great or
dead ! Go, son of Fithil, take my spear. Strike the
sounding shield of Semo. It hangs at Tara's rustling
gate. The sound of peace is not its voice ! My heroes
shall hear and obey." He went. He struck the
bossy shield. The hills, the rocks reply. The sound
spreads along the wood : deer start by the lake of roes.
Curach leaps from the sounding rock ! and Connal of
FTNGAL. 205
the bloody spear ! Crugal's breast of snow beats high.
The son of Favi leaves the dark-brown bJnd. It is the
shield of war, said Ronnart ; the spear of CuthulHn,
said Liigar ! Son of the sea, put on thy arms ! Cal-
mar, lift thy sounding steel ! Puno ! dreadful hero,
arise ! Cairbar, from thy red tree of Cromla ! Bend
thy knee, O Eth ! descend from the streams of Lena.
Caolt, stretch thy side as thou movest along the whist-
ling 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 lire. They roll in search of the foes of the land.
Their mighty hands are on their swords. Lightning
pours from their sides of steel. They come like
streams from the mountains ; each rushes roaring from
the hill. Bright arc the chiefs of battle, in the armor
of their fathers. Gloomy and dark, their heroes follow
like the gathering of the rain}^ 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
lliat shades the hills of autumn ; v/hen broken and dark
it settles high, and lifts its head to heaven.
" Hail," said CuthuUin, " 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 sha.ll we fight, ye sons of war ! or yield
grecii^ Rrir! to Lochlin ? O Connal ! speak, thou first
of m.cn ! thou breaker of the shields ! thou hast often
fought with Lochlin : wilt thou lift thy father's spear ?"
" Cuthullin !" calm the chief replied, " the spear of
Connal is keen. It delights to shine in battle, to mix
296 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN.
with the blood of ihousands. But though my hand is
bent on fight, my heart is for the peace of Erin.* Be-
hold, thou first in Cormac's war, the sable fleet of
Swaran. His masts are many on our coasts, like reeds
on the lake of Lego. His ships are forests clothed
with mists, when the trees yield by turns to the squally
wind. Many are his chiefs in battle. Qonnal is for
poSLce ! Fingal would shun his arm, the firsToT'mbr-
tal men ! Fingal who scatters the mighty, as stormy
winds the echoing Cona ; and night settles with all her
clouds on the hill !"
" Fly, thou man of peace !" said Colmar, " fly,"
said the son of Matha ; "go, Connal, to thy silent hills,
where the spear never brightens in war ! Pursue the
dark-brown deer of Cromla : stop with thine arrows
the bounding roes of Lena. But blue-eyed son of
Semo, Cuthullin, ruler of the field, scatter thou the
sons of Lochlin !f roar through the ranks of their pride.
Let no vessel of the kingdom of snow bound on the
dark-rolling waves of Inistore.if Eise, ye dark winds
of Erin, rise ! roar, whirlwinds of Lara of hinds !
Amid the tempest let me die, tmm, in ji_clau^d^by_angry
gliosta-jof jToen ; amid the tempest let Calmar die, if
ever chase was sport to him, so much as the battle of
shields !
" Calmar !" Connal slow replied, " I never fled,
young son of Matha ! I was swift with my friends in
fight ; but small is the fame of Connal ! The battle
was won in my presence ! the valiant overcame ! But,
son of Semo, hear my voice, regard the ancient throne
of Cormac. Give wealth and half the land for peace,
till Fingal shall arrive on our coast. Or, if war be thy
* Erin, a name of Ireland ; for " ear," or " iar," west, and ** io**
an island,
t The Gaelic name of a Scandinavian general.
X The Orkney islands.
FINGAL. 297
dioice, I lift the sword and spear. My joy shall be in
the midst of thousands ; my soul shall alighten through
the gloom of the tight !"
" To me," Cuthullin replies, " pleasant is the noise
of arms ! pleasant as the thunder of heaven, before
the shower cf spring ! But gather all the shining
tribes, that I may view the sons of war ! Let them
pass along the heath, bright as the sunshine before a
storm ; when the west wind collects the clouds, and
Morven echoes over all her oaks ! But where are my
friends in battle ? the supporters of my arm in danger ?
Where art thou, white-bosomed 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 Rossa ! arm of death !
comest thou like a roe from Maimer ? like a hart from
thy echoing hills ? Hail, thou son of Rossa ! what
.shades the soul of war ?"
" Four stones,'"* replied the chief, " rise on the grave
of Cathba. These hands have laid in earth Ducho-
mir, that cloud in war ! Cathba, son of Torman !
thou wort a sunbeam in Erin. And thou, O valiant
DiichOmar ! a mist of the marshy Lano ; when it
moves on the plains of autumn, bearing the death of
thousands along. Morna ! fairest of maids ! calm is
thy sleep in the cave of the rock ! Thou hast fallen
in darkness, like a star, that shoots across the desert ;
when the traveller is alone, and mourns the transient
beam !"
* This passage alludes to the manner of burial among the ancient
Sr^cots. They opened a grave six or eight feet deep ; the bottom
was lined with tine clay ; and on this they laid the body of the de-
ceased, and, if a warrior, his sword, and the heads of twelve ar-
rows by his side. Above they laid another stratum of clay, in
which they placed the horn of a deer, the symbol of hunting. The
whole was covered with a fine mould, and four stones placed on
end to mark the extent of the grave. These are the four stonea
alluded to here.
298 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN.
" Say," said Seme's bluc-eycd son, " say how fell
tlK; 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 ?"
" Cathba," replied the hero, " fell by the sword of
Duchomar at the oak of the noisy streams. Duchomar
came to Tura's cave ; he spoke to the lovely Morna.
' Morna, fairest among v/omen, lovely daughter of
strong-armed Corniac ! Why in the circle of stones :
in the cave of the rock alone ? The stream murmurs
along. The old tree groans in tlie 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 tlie halls of the great Fingal.'
" ' From whence,' the fair-haired maid replied, ' from
whence Duchomar, most gloom.y of men ? Dark are
thy brov/s and terrible ! Red are tliy rolling eyes !
Does Swaran appear on the sea ? What of the foe,
Duchomar V ' 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, Hove
thee as my soul : I have slain one stately deer for thee.
High was his branchy head — and fleet his feet of wind.'
* Duchomar !' calm the maid replied, ' I love thee not,
thou gloomy man ! hard is thy heart of rock ; dark is
thy terrible brow. But Cathba, young son of Torman,
thou art the love of Morna. Thou art a sunbeam, in
the day of the gloomy storm. Sawest thou the son of
Torman, lovely on the hill of His hinds ? Here the
dauo;hter of Cormac waits the cominfr of Cathba !"
" ' Long shall Morna wait,' Duchomar said, ' long
shall Morna wait for Cathba ! Behold this sword uu-
FINGAL. 299
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 V 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 ! tlue foe of
the strangers of ocean ! Thou art dark""^ to me, Du
chomar ; 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 : ' Daugh-
ter 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. Duchomar
was the dream of her night ! She will raise my tomb ;
the hunter shall raise my fame. But draw the sword
from m}^ breast. Morna, the steel is cold !' She came,
in all her tears she came ; she drew the sword from
his breast. He pierced her white side ! He spread her
fair locks on the ground ! Her bursting blood sounds
from her side: her white arm is stained with red.
Rolling in death she lay. The cave re-echoed to her
sighs."
'' Peace," said Cuthullin, " to the souls of the heroes !
their deeds were great in fight. Let them ride around
me on clouds. Let them show their features of war.
My soul shall then be firm in danger ; mine arm like
the thunder of heaven! But be thou on a moonbeam,
O Morna ! near the window of my rest ; when my
thoughts are of peace ; when the din of arms is past.
* She alludes to his name the " dark man/*
SOO THE POEMS OF OSSIAN.
Gather the strength of the tribes ! Move to the wars
of Erin ! Attend the car of my battles ! Rejoice in
the noise of my course ! Place three spears by my
side : follow the bounding of my steeds ! that my soul
may be strong in my friends, when battle darkens
around the beams of my steel !
As rushes a stream of foam from the dai-k 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 valor forth, as a
stream, rolling his might along the shore. The sons
of Lochlin heard the noise, as the sound of a winter
storm. Swaran struck his bossy shield : he called the
son of Arno. " What murmur rolls along the hill, like
the gathered flies of the eve ? The sons of Erin de-
scend, 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. Ilis heart beat high against his
si<]e. 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 (lame of death ! the rapid car of
Cathullin, 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 pol-
ished 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
riNGAL. 30 i
car is seen the snorting horse ! the high-maned, broad-
breasted, proud, wide-leaping, strong steed of the hill.
Loud and resounding is his hoof: the spreading of hid
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 !
" Before the left side of the car is seen the snorting
horse ! The thin-maned, high-headed, strong-hoofed
fleet-bounding son of the hill : His name is Dusronnal,
among the stormy sons of the sword ! A thousand
thongs bind the car on high. Hard polished bits shine
in wreath of foam. Thin thongs, bright studded with
gems, bend on the stately necks of the steeds. The
steeds, that like wreaths of mist fly over the streamy
vaies ! The wildness of deer is in their c-oursc, 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 Cu-
tliullin, son of Semo, king of shells. His red cheek
is like my polished yew. The look of his blue-
rolling eye is wide, beneath the dark arch of his
brow. His hair flies from his head like a flame, as
bending forward he wields the spear. Fly, king of
ocean, fly ! He comes, like a storm along the streamy
vale !
" When did I fly ?" replied the king ; " when fled
Swaran from the battle of spears ? When did I shrink
from danger, chief of the little soul ? I met the storm
of Gormal when the foam of my waves beat high.
I met the storm of the clouds ; shall Swaran fly from
a hero ? Were Fingal himself before me, my soul
should not darken with fear. Arise to battle, my thou-
sands ! pour round me like the echoing main, gatlier
round the bright steel of your king ; strong as the rocks
26
(302' THE rOEMS OF OSSTAN.
of my land ; that meet the storm with joy, and stretch
their dark pines to the wind !"
Like autumn's dark storms pouring from two 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 bat-
tle meet Lochlin and i.iis-fail. Chief mixes his strokes
with chief, and man with man : steel, clanging, sounds
I on steel. Helmets are cleft on high. Slood bursts
/ and^mokes ai'ound. Strings murmur on the pohslied
f yews. "Darts rush along the sky. Spears fall like the
! circles of light, which gild the face of night : as the
1 noise of the troubled ocean, when roll the waves on
1 liigh. As the last peal of thunder in heaven, such is
1 the din of war ! Though Cormac's hundred bards
were there to give the fight to song ; feeble was the
voice of a hundred bards to send the deaths to future
times ! For many were the deaths of heroes ; wide
poured the blood of the brave !
Mourn, ye sons of song, mourn the death of the
noble 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 it pierces the sons of the vale ; when the people
are blasted and fall, and all the hills are burning
around. Dusronnal snorted over the bodies of heroes.
Sifadda bathed his hoof in blood. The battle lay be-
* Thif isle of Sky ; not improperly called the " isle of mist," aa
Its high hills, which catch the clouds from the Western Ocean, oc-
casion almost continual rains.
FINGAL. 303
hind them, as groves overturned on the deser< of Crom-
la ; 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 v/aves, thou lovelier
than the ghost of the hills, when it moves on the sun-
beam, at noon, over the silence of Morven. He is
fallen : thy youth is low ! pale beneath the sword of
Cuthullin ! No more sh?dl valor raise thy love to match
the blood of kings. Trenar, graceful Trenar died, O
maid of Inistorc ! His gray dogs are howling at home :
they see his passing ghost. His bow is in the hall un-
strung. 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
liero 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, 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 m.oss. Who is it but ocean's son and the car-borne
chief of Erin ? Many are the anxious eyes of their
friends, as they see them dim on the heath. But night
conceals the chiefs in clouds, and ends the dreadful
fight !
It was on Cromla's shaggy side that Dorglas had
placed the deer ; the early fortune of the chase, before
the heroes left the hill. A hundred youths collect the
heath ; ten warriors wake the fire ; three huiidred
choose the polished stones. The feast is smoking
wide ! Cuthullin, chief of Erin's war, resumed his
mighty soul. He stood upon his beamy speai*, ami
304 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN.
spoke to the son of songs ; to Carril of other times,
the gray-hcacled son of Kinfcna. " 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
CathuUin gives his feast. Here let him listen to the
sound of my groves, amidst the clouds of night, for
cold and bleak the bkistering 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 cast, 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
dark Cuthullin yield to me the ancient throne of Cor-
mac, or Erin's torrents shall show from their hills the
red foam of the blood of his pride !
" Sad is the sound of Swaran's voice," said Carril
of other times ! " Sad to himself alone," said the
blue-eyed son of Semo. " But, Carril, raise the voice
on high ; tell the deeds of other times. Send thou tho
night away in song, and give the joy of grief For
many heroes and maids of love have moved on Inis-
FINGAL. 305
fail, and lovely are the songs of wo that are heard
on Albion's rocks, when the noise of the chase is past,
and the streams of Cona* answer to the voice of
Ossian/'
" In other days," Carril replies, " came the sons of
<3cean 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 Gol-
bun'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 leap-
ing 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 nigjht, when its edsje 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,
hou mighty in the war V
" * Take, Brassolis,' Cairbar came and said ; ' take,
Brassolis, this shield of blood. Fix it on high within
my hall, the armor of my foe !' Her soft heart beat
* The Cona here mentioned is the small river that runs through
Glenco in Argjleshire.
t Lnbar, a river in Ulster. " Labhar/' Joud, noisv.
26*
300 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN.
against her sklc. Distracted, pale, she flew. She
found her youth in all his blood ; she died on Cromla's
heath. Here rests their dust, Guthullin ! these lonely
vews sprung from their tombs, and shade them from
the storm. Fair was Brassolis on the plain ! Stately
was Grudar on the hill ! The bard shall preserve their
names, and send them down to future times !'"'
*• Pleasant is thy voice, O Carril," said the blue-eyed
chief of Erin. Pleasant are the words of other times.
They are like the calm shower of spring, when the sun
looks on the field, and the light cloud flies over the
hills. O strike the harp in praise of my love, the
lonely sunbeam of Dunscaith ! Strike the harp in the
praise of 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 Guthullin ? The sea
is rolling distant far : its white foam deceives thee for
my sails. Retire, for it is night, my love ; the dark
winds sigh in thy hair. Retire to the halls of my feasts,
think of the times that are past. I will not return till
the storm of war is ceased. O Connal ! speak of vv^ar
and arms, and send her from my mind. Lovely with
her flow^ing hair is the white-bosomed daughter of
Sorglan."
Connal, slow to speak, replied, '' Guard against the
race of ocean. Send thy troop of night abroad, and
watch the strength of Swaran. Guthullin, I am for
peace till the race of Selma come, till Fiugal come,
the first of men, and beam, like the sim, on our fields !"
The hero struck the shield of alarms, the warriors of
the night moved on. The rest lay in the heath of
ihe deer, and slept beneath the dusky wind. Tho
ghosts* of the lately dead were near, and swam on
♦ It was long the opinion of the ancient Scots, that a ghost was
heard shrf eking near the place where a death was to happen soon
after.
FiNrrAL. 807
the gloomy clouds; and far distant in the dark si-
lence of Lena, the feeble voices of death were faintly
heard.
BOOK II.
ARGUMENT.
The ^host oi' Crugiil, one of the Irish heroes who was killed in
battle, appearing to Connal, ibretells the deieat of CuthuUiu in
the next battle, and earnest!}' advises him to make peace with
Swaran. Connal communicates the vision ; but CuthuUin is in-
flexible ; from a principle cf honor he would not be the lirst to
sue for peace, and he resolved to continue the war. Morning
comes ; Swaran proposes dishonorable terms to Cuthullln, which
are rejected. The battle begins, and is obstinately fought for
some time, until, upon the llight of (irumal, the w^hoie IrisR army
gave way. CuthuUin and Connal cover their retreat. Cariil
h^ads them to a neighboring hill, whitlier they are soon followed
by CuthuUin himaelf, who descries the fleet of Fingal making
towards their coast ; but night coming on, he lost sight of it
again. CuthuUin, dejected after his defeat, attributes his iU suc-
cess to the death of Ferda, his friend, whom he had killed some
time before. Carril, to show that ill success did not always at-
tend those who innocently killed their friends, introduces the
episode of Connal and Galvina.
Connal lay by the sound of the mountain-stream,
beneath the aged tree. A stone, with its moss, sup-
ported liis head. Shrill, through the heath of Lena,
he heard the voice of night. At distance from the
heroes he lay ; the son of the sword feared no foe !
The hero beheld, in his rest, a dark-red stream of fire
rushing down from the hill. Crugal sat upon the beam,
a chief who fell in fight. He fell by the hand of Swa-
ran, 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.
308 THE POEMS OF OSSIAK.
Dark is the wound of his breast ! " Crugal," said the
mighty Connal, " son of Dedgal famed on the hill of
hinds ! Why so pale and sad, thou breaker of shields ?
Thou hast never been pale for fear ! What disturbs
the departed Crugal ?" Dim, and in tears he stood,
aiid stretched his pale hand over the hero. Faintly he
raised his feeble voice, like the gale of the reedy Lego.
" My spirit, Connal, is on my hills ; my course on
the sands of Erin. Thou shalt never talk with Crugal,
nor find his lone steps in the heath. I am light as the
blast of Cromla. I move like the shadow of mist !
Connal, son of Colgar, I see a cloud of death : it
hovers dark over the plains of Lena. The sons of
green Erin must fall. Remove from the field of
ghosts." Like the darkened moon he retired, in the
midst of the whistling blast. " Stay," said the mighty
Connal ; " stay, my dark-red friend. Lay by tb: t
beam of heaven, son of windy Cromla ! What cl.vo
is thy lonely house ? What green-headed hill the place
of thy repose ? Shall we not hear thee in the storm ?
in the noise of the mountain-fitream ? when the feeble
sons of the wind come forth, and, scarcely seen, pass
•over the desert ?"
The soft-voiced Connal rose, in the midst of his
sounding arms. He struck his shield above Culhullin.
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 ; soji of Colgar,
speak ; thy counsel is the sun of heaven !" " Son of
Semo !" replied the chief, " the ghost of Crugal came
from his cave. The stars dim twinkled through his
form. His voice was like the sound of a distant stream.
He is a messenger of death ! He speaks of the dark
and narrow house ! Sue for peace, O chief of Erin \
or ilv over the heath of Lena !
JINGAL. 309
" He spoke to Connal," replied the hero, " though
stars d-im 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 ? the house of that son of wind ? My sword
might find that voice, and force his knowledge frorr.^
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
£y on clouds, and ride on winds," said Connal's voice
of wisdom. " They rest together in their caves, and
talk of mortal men.*'
" Then let them talk of mortal men ; of every man
but Erin's chief. Let me be forgot in their cave. I
will not fly from Swaran ! If fall I must, my tomb
shall rise amidst the fame of future times. The hunter
shall shed a tear on my stone : sorrow shall dwell
arotmd the high-bosomed Bragela. I fear not death ;
tn his
hill. He sees the high billows advancing to Ardven's
shore.
Such were the words of Connal when the heroes met
in fight. There was the clang of arms ! there every
blow, like the hundred hammers of the furnace ! Ter-
rible 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 herms.
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 onCona ; 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
Fi:s^GAL. 341
together with all their rocks and trees. The streams
arc 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 chil-
dren 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 elouf
a king of LochUn, who was ancestor to iSwaran ; which consid-
eration, together with his being brother to Agandecca, with
whom Fingal was in love in his youth, induced the king to re-
lease him, and permit him to return with the remains of his army
into Lochhn, upon his promise of never returning to Ireland in a
hostile manner. The night is spent in settling Swaran's depart-
ure, in songs of bards, and in a conversation in which the story ot
Grunial is introduced by Fingal. Morning comes. Swaran de-
parts. Fingal goes on a hunting party, and tinding Cuthullin in
the cave of Tura, comforts him, and sets sail the next day for
Scotland, which concludes the poem.
The clouds of night came rolling down. Darkness
rests on the steeps of Cromla. The stars of the north
FINGAL, 349
arise over the rolling of Erin's waves ; they tliow their
heads of fire through the flying mist of heaven. A
distant wind roars in the wood. Silent and dark u the
plain of death ! Still on the dusky Lena arose in my
ears the voice^^f Carril. He sung of the friends of
our youth ; the days of former years ; when we met
on the banks of Lego ; when we sent round the joy of
the shell. Cromla answered to his voice. The ghosts
of those he simgcame 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 aw^ay in thy murmuring blast ; tlie
wind whistles through the gray hair of Ossian !
Now, on the side of Mora, tlie heroes gathered to
the feast. A thousand aged oaks are burning to the
v/ind. The strength of the shell goes round. The
souls of warriors brighten with joy. But the king of
Lochlin is silent. Sorrow reddens in the eyes of his
pride. He often turned towards Lena. He remem-
bered that he fell. Fingal leaned on the shield of hisj
fathers. His gray locks slov\^ly 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
30
350 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN.
in fight. Ponroful it lies by my sidr 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 valor. The
king of Lochlin prepared the feast. He called the
blooming Trenmor. Three days he feasted at Gor-
raal's windy towers, and received his choice in the com-
bat. The land of Lochlin had no hero that yielded
not to Trenmor. The shell of joy went round v/ith
songs in praise of the king of Morven. He that came
over the waves, the first of mighty men.
" Now when the fourth gray morn arose, the hero
launched his ship. He walked along the silent shore,
and called for the rushing wind ; for loud and distant
he heard the blast murmuring behind the groves.
Covered over with arms of steel, a son of the woody
Gormal appeared. Red was his cheek, and fair his
hair. His skin was like the snow of Morven. Mild
rolled his blue and smiling eye, when he spoke to the
king of swords.
" ' Stay, Trenmor, stay, thou first of men ; thou
hast not conquered Lonval's son. My sword has
often met the brave. The wise shun the strength of
my bow.' ' Thou fair-haired youth,' Trenmor replied,
' 1 will not fight with Lonval's son. Thine arm is
feeble, sunbeam of youth ! Retire to Gormal's dark-
brown hinds.' < But I will retire,' replied the youth,
FINOAL. 351
' with the sword of Trenmor ; and exult in the sound
of my fame. The virgins shall gather with smiles
around him who conquered mighty Trenmor. They
shall sigh with the sighs of love, and admire the length
of thy spear : when I shall carry it among thousands ;
when I lift the glittering point to the sun.'
" ' Thou shalt never carry my spear,' said the angry
king of Morven. ^ Thy mother shall find their aged
hairs. Dost thou not see, O Gaul ! how the steps of
my age are honored ? Morni moves forth, and the
young men meet him, with silent joy, on his course.
But I never fled from danger, my son ! my sword
lightened through the darkness of war. The stranger
melted before me ; the mighty were blasted in my
presence."
Gaul brought the arms to Morni : the aged warrior
is covered with steel. He took the spear in his hand,
which was stained with the blood of the valiant. He
came towards Fingal ; his son attended his steps. The
son of Comhal arose before him with joy, when he
came in his locks of age,
" Chief of the roaring Strumon V 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 glitter-
ing fields. But why didst thou not rest in thine age ?
Thy renown is in the song. The people behold thee,
and bless the departure of mighty Morni. Why didst
thou not rest in thine age ? The foe will vanish before
Fingal!"
" Son of Comhal," replied the chief, " the strength
of Morni's arm has failed. I attempt to draw the sword
of my youth, but it remains in its place. I throw the
spear, but it falls short of the mark. I feel the weight
of my shield. We decay like the grass of the hill ;
our strength returns no more. I have a son, O Fingal !
his soul has delighted in Morni's deeds ; but his sword
has not been lifted against a foe, neither has his fame
begun. I come with him to the war ; to direct his
arm in fight. His renown will be a light to my soul.
LATHMON. 361
in the dark hour of my departure. O that the name
of Morni were forgot among the people ! that the he-
roes would only say, * Behold the father of Gaul !' "
''KingofStrumon," Fingal replied, "Gaul shall lift
the sword in fight. But he shall lift it before Fingal ;
my arm shall defend his youth. But rest thou in the
halls of Selma, and hear of our renown. Bid the harp
to be strung, and the voice of the bard to arise, that
those who fall may rejoice in their fame, and the soul
of Morni brighten with joy. Ossian, thou hast fought
in battles : the blood of strangers is on thy spear : thy
course be with Gaul in the strife ; but depart not from
the side of Fingal, lest the foe should find you alone,
and your fame fail in my presence."
" * I saw Gaul in his arms ; my soul was mixed with
his. The fire of the battle was in his eyes ! he looked
to the foe with joy. We spoke the words of friendship
in secret ; the lightning of our swords poured together ;
for we drew them behind the wood, and tried the
strength of our arms on the empty air !"
Night came down on Morven. Fingal sat at the
beam of the oak. Morni sat by his side with all his
gray- waving locks. Their words were of other times,
of the mighty deeds of their fathers. Three bards, at
times, touched the harp : Ullin was near with his song.
He sung of the mighty Comhal ; but darkness gathered
on Morni's brow. He rolled his red eye on Ullin : at
once ceased the song of the bard. Fingal observed
the aged hero, and he mildly spoke : " Chief of Stru-
mon, why that darkness ? Let the days of other years
be forgot. Our fathers contended in war; but we
meet together at the feast. Our swords are turned on
the foe of our land : he melts before us on the field.
Ossian speaks.
31
362 THE POEMS OF 05SIAN.
Let the days of o\ir fathers be forgot, liero of mossy
Strumon !"
" King of Morven/' replied tlie chief, " I remember
thy father with joy. He was terrible in battle, tlie rage
of the chief was deadly. My eyes were full of tears
when the king of heroes fell. The valiant fall, O Fin-
gal ! the feeble remain on the hills! How many heroes
have passed away in the days of Morni ! Yet I did not
shun the battle ; neither did I fly from the strife of the
valiant. Now let the friends of Fingal rest, for the
night is around, that they may rise with strength to
battle against car-borne Lathmon, 1 hear the sound
of his host, like thunder moving on the hills. Ossian !
and fair-haired Gaul ! ye are young and swift in the
race. Observe the foes of Fingal from that woody
hill. But approach them not: your fathers are near
to shield you. Let not your fame fall at once. The
valor of youth may fail !"
We heard the words of the chief with joy. We
moved in the clang of our arms. Our steps are on
the woody hill. Heaven burns with all its stars. The
meteors of death fly over the field. The distant noise
of the foe reached our cars. It was then Gaul spoke,
in his valor: his hand half unsheathed his sword.
" Son of Fingal !" he said, " 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-
wards the foe, my soul lightens before me. I see tijeir
sleeping host. Tremble thus the souls of the valiant
in battles of the spear ? How would the soul of Morni
rise if we should rush on the foe ? Our renown would
grow in song : our steps would be stately in the eyes
of the brave."
" Son of Morni," I replied, "my soul delights in war.
I delight to shine in battle alone, to give my name to
the bards But what if the foe should prevail ? can I
LATHMON. 363
behold the eyes of the king ? They are terrible in his
displeasure, and like the flames of death. But I will
not behold them in his wrath ! Ossian shall prevail or
fall. But shall the fame of the vanquished rise ? They
pass like a shade away. But the fame of Ossian shaJl
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 tlmt 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
[ return after Ossian is low ? What would my father
say ? what Fingal, the king of men ? The feeble
would turn their eyes and say, ' Behold Gaul, who left
his friend in his blood !' Ye shall not behold me, ye
feeble, but in the midst of my renown ! Ossian, I have
heard from my father the mighty deeds of heroes ;
their mighty deeds when alone ! for the soul increases
in danger !"
" Son of Morni," I replied, and strode before him on
the heath, " our fathers shall praise our valor when
they mourn our fall. A beam of gladness shall rise
on their souls, when their eyes are full of tears. They
will say, ' Our sons have not fallen unknown : they
spread death around them.' But why should we think
of the narrow house ? The sword defends the brave.
But death pursues the flight of the feeble ; their 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.
Their fires were decayed on the plain : the lonely
steps of their scouts were distant far. I stretched nrjy
spear before me, to support my steps over the stream.
364 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN.
But Gaul took my hand, and spoke the words of the
brave. " Shall the son of Fingal rush on the sleeping
foe ? Shall he come like a blast by night, when it
overturns the young trees in secret ? Fingal did 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 slaugh-
ter. Gaul ! dost thou not behold that rock ? Its gray
side dimly gleams to the stars. Should the foe prevail,
let our back be towards the rock. Then shall they fear
to approach our spears ; for death is in our hands !"
I struck thrice my echoing shield. The startling
foe arose. We rushed on in the sound of our arms.
Their crowded steps fly over the heath. They thought
that the mighty Fingal was come. The strength of
their arms withered away. The sound of their flight
was like that of flame, when it rushes through the
blasted groves. It was then the spear of Gaul flew in
its strength ; it was then his sword arose. 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, iu the first of
LATHMON. 365
thy battles. Nor slept the sword by thy side, thou
last of Fingal's race ! Ossian rushed forward in his
strength ; the people fell before him ; as the grass by
the staff of the boy, when he whistles along the field,
and the 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 unequal
on the heath. I saw the distant darkness of the hero,
and I spoke to Morni's son.
" Car-borne chief of Strumon, dost thou behold the
foe ? They gather on the hill in their wrath. Let our
steps be toward the king.* He shall rise in his strength,
and the host of Lathmon vanish. Our fame is around
us, warrior ; the eyes of the agcdf will rejoice. But
let us fly, son of Morni, Lathmon descends the hill."
" Then let our steps be slow," replied the fair-haired
Gaul ; " lest the foe say with a smile, * Behold the
warriors of night ! They are, like ghosts, terrible in
darkness ; they melt away before the beam of the east.'
Ossian, take the shield of Gormar, who fell beneath
thy spear. The aged heroes will rejoice, beholding
the deeds of their sons."
Such were our words on the plain, when Sulmath
came to car-borne Lathmon : Sulmath chief of Datha,
at the dark-rolling stream of Duvranna. " Why dost
thou not rush, son of Nuath, with a thousand of thy
heroes ? Why dost thou not descend with thy host
l^efore the warriors fly ? Their blue arms are beam-
ing to the rising light, and their steps are before us on
the heath !"
Fingal. f Fingal and Momi.
31*
9l6 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN.
" Son of the feeble hand," said Lathmon, " shall my
host descend ? They are But two, son of Dutha ! shall
a 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 a p.
preached. Go thou to the heroes, chief of Dutha ! I
behold the stately steps of Ossian. His fame is worthy
of my steel ! let us contend in fight."
The noble Sulmath came. I rejoiced in the words
of the king. I raised the shield on my arm : Gaul
placed in my hand the sword of Morni. We returned to
the murmuring stream ; Lathmon came down in his
strength. His dark host rolled, like clouds, behind
him ; but the son of Nuiith 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 mai ! 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 Lath-
mon when his sword rested by his side : the blue eyes
of Cutha would roll in tears ; her steps be lonely in
the vales of Dunlatlimon !"
" Neither shall it be told," I replied, " that the son
of Fingal fled. Were his steps covered with darkness,
yet would not Ossian fly ! Flis 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 'jf
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 glittei-ing on earth. The son of
Nuiith burnt in his wrath. He lifted high his sounding
shield. His dark eyes rolled above it, as, bending for-
LATHMON. 367
ward, it shone like a gate of brass. But Ossian's spear
pierced the brightness of its bosses, and sunk in a tree
that rose behind. The shield hung on the quivering
lance I But Lathmon still advanced ! Gaul foresaw
the fall of the chief. He stretched his buckler before
my sword, when it descended, in a stream of light, over
the king of Dunlathmon !
Lathmon beheld the son of Morni. The tear started
from his eye. He threw the sword of his fathers on
the earth, and spoke the words of the brave.
" Why should Lathmon fight against the first of
men ? Your souls are beams from heaven ; your
swords the flames of death ! Who can equal the re-
nown of the heroes, whose deeds arc so great in youth ?
O that ye were in the halls of Nuath, in the green
dwelling of Lathmon ! Then would my father say that
his son did not yield to the weak. But who comes, a
mighty stream, along the echoing heath ? The little
hills are troubled before him. A thousand ghosts are
on the beams of his steel ; the ghosts of those who are
to fall by the king of resounding Morven. Happy art
thou, O Fingal ! thy son shall fight thy wars. They
go forth before thee : they return with the steps of
their renown !"
Fingal came in his mildness, rejoicing in secret over
the deeds of his son. Morni 's face brightened with
gladness. His aged eyes look faintly through tears
of joy. We came to the halls of Selma. We sat
around the feasts of shells. The maids of song came
in to our presence, and the mildly -blushing Everallin !
Her hair spreads on her neck of snow, her eye rolls
in secret on Ossian. She touched the harp of music !
we blessed the daughter of Branno !
Fingal rose in his place, and spoke to Lathmon, king
of spears. The sword of Trenmor shook by his side,
as high he raised his mighty arm. " Son of Nuiilh,"
368 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN.
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 Lath-
mon, 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 ray steel pours
on the proud in arms. The battle comes ! and the
tombs of the valiant rise ; the tombs of my people rise,
O my fathers ! I at last must remain alone ! But I will
remain renowned : the departure of my soul shall be a
stream of light. Lathmon ! retire to thy place ! Turn
thy battles to other lands ! The race of Morven are
renowned ; their foes arc the sons of the unhappy."
DAR-THULA.
ARGUMENT.
It may not be improper here to give the story which is the founda.
lion of this poem, as it is handed down by tradition. Usnoth,
lord of Etha, which is probably that part of Argyleshire which is
near Loch Eta, an arm of ihe sea in Lorn, had three sons, Na-
thos, Althos, and Ardan, by SUssama, the daughter of Semo, and
sister to the celebrated Cathullin. The three brothers, when very
young, were sent over to Ireland by their lather, to learn the use
of arms under their uncle Cuthullin, v/ho made a great figure in
that kingdom. They were just landed in Ulster, when the news
of Cuthullin's death arrived. Nathos, though very young, took
the command of Cuthullin's army, made head against Cairbar the
usurper, and defeated him in several battles. Cairbar at last, hav-
ing found means to murder Corrnac, the lawful king, the army
of Nathos shifted sides, and he himself was obliged to return into
Ulster, in order to pass over into Scotland.
Dar-thula, the daughter of Colla, with whom Cairbar was in love,
resided at that time in 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 tirrie w4th great bra-
very, were overpowered and slain, and the unfortunate Dar-thula
killed herself upon the body of her beloved Nathos.
The poem opens on the night preceding the death of the sons of
Usnoth, and brings in, by way of episode, what passed before.
It relates the death of Dar-thula ditlerenily from the common
tradition. This account is the most probable, as suicide seema
to have been unknown in those early times, lor no traces of it
are found in the old poetry.
Daughter of heaven, fair art thou ! the silence of
ih} face is pleasant ! Thou comest forth in lovelines?.
The stars attend thy blue course in the east. The
clouds rejoice in thy presence, O moon ! They
brighten their dark-brown sides. Who is like thee in
heaven, light of the silent night '? The stars are
ashamed in thy presence. They turn away their
sparkling eyes. Whither dost thou retire from thy
3W THE POEMS OF OSSIAN.
course when the darkness of thy countenance grows ?
Hast thou thy hall, like Ossian ? Dwellest thou in the
shadow of grief 1 Have thy sisters fallen from heaven ?
Are they who rejoiced with thee, at night, no more 1
Yes, they have fallen, fair light ! and thou dost often
retire to mourn. But thou thyself shalt fail one night,
and leave thy blue path in heaven. The stars will
then lift their heads : they who were ashamed in thy
presence, will rejoice. Thou art now clothed with thy
brightness. Look from thy gates in the sky. Burst
the cloud, O wind ! that the daughters of night may
look forth ; that the shaggy mountains may brighten,
and the ocean roll its white waves in light !
Nathos is on the deep, and Althos, that beam of
youth ! Ardan is near his brothers. They move in
the gloom of their course. The sons of Usnoth move
in darkness, from the wrath of Cairbar of Erin. Who
is that, dim by their side ? The night has covered her
beauty ! Her hair sighs on ocean's wind. Her robe
streams in dusky wreaths. She is like the fair spirit
of heaven in the midst of the shadowy mist. Who is
it but Dar-thula, the first of Erin's maids ? She has
fled from the love of Cairbar, witli blue-shielded Nathos.
But the winds deceive thee, O Dar-thula ! They deny
the woody Etha to thy sails. These are not the moun-
tains of Nathos ; nor is that the roar of his climbing
waves. The halls of Cairbar are near : the towers of
the foe lift their heads ! Erin stretches its green head
into the sea. Tura's bay receives the ship. Where
have ye been, ye southern winds, when the sons of my
love were deceived ? But ye have been sporting on
the plains, pursuing the thistle's beard. O that ye had
been rustling in the sails of Nathos, till the hills of
Etha arose ! till they arose in their clouds, and saw
their returning chief! Long hast thou been absent,
Nathos ! the day of thy return is past !
DAR-TIIULA. - 371
But the land of strangers sav/ thee lovely ! thou,
wast lovely in the eyes of Dar-thula. Thy face was
like the light of tlie morning. Thy hair like the ra-
ven's wing. Thy soul was generous and mild, like the
hour of the setting sun. Thy words were the gale of
the reeds ; the gliding stream of Lora ! But when the
rage of battle rose, thou wast a sea in a storm. The
clang of thy arms was terrible : the host vanished at
the sound of thy course. It was then Dar-thula beheld
thee, from the top of her mossy tower ; -from the tower
of Selama, where her fathers dwelt.
" Lovely art thou, O stranger !'' she said, for her
trembling soul arose. " Fair art thou in thy battles,
friend of the fallen Cormac ! Why dost thou rush on
in thy valor, youth of the ruddy look ? Few are thy
hands in fisht acainst the dark-brown Cairbar ! O that
I might be freed from his love, that I might rejoice in
the presence of Nathos ! Blest are the rocks of Etha !
they will behold his steps at the chase ; they will see
his white bosom, when the winds lift his flowing hair!"
Such were thy words, Dar-thula, in 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 roaring of his mountain streams ? Comes that
beam of light from Usnoth's nightly hall ? The mist
spreads around ; the beam is feeble and distant far.
But the light of Dar-thula's soul dwells in the chief of
Etha ! Son of the generous Usnoth, why that broken
sigh? Are we in the land of strangers, chief of echo-
ing Etha?"
"These are not the rocks of Nathos," he rephcd.
372 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN.
*' nor this the roar of his stream. No light cornea
from Etha's hall, for they are distant far. We are in
the land of strangers, in the land of cruel Cairbar.
The winds have deceived us, Dar-tbula. Erin lifts
here her hills. Go towards the north, Althos : be thy
steps, Ardan, along the coast 5 that the foe may not
come in darkness, and our hopes of Etha fail. 1 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 car towards the tread of his feet. The
tread of his feet is not heard. " Where art thou, son
of my love ! The roar of the blast is around me.
Dark is the cloudy night. But Nathos does not return.
What detains thee, chief of Etha ? Have the foes met
the hero in the strife of the night 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. t;ile of grief. The soul of Nathos
was sad, like the sun in the day of mist, when his face
is watery and dim.
" Why art thou sad, O Nathos !" said the lovely
daughter of Colla. " Thou art a pillow of light to
Dar-thula. The joy of her eyes is in Etha's chief.
Where is my friend, but Nathos? My father, my
brother is fallen ! Silence dwells on Selama. Sadness
spreads on the blue streams of my land. My friends
DAR-THULA. 373
have fallen with Cormac. The mighty were slain in
the battles of Erin. Hear, son of Usnoth ! hear, O
Nathos ! my tale of grief.
" Evening darkened on the plain. The blue streams
failed before mine eyes. The unfrequent blast came
rustling in the tops of Selama's groves. My seat was
beneath a tree, on the walls of my fathers. Truthil
past before my soul ; the brother of my love : he that
was absent in battle against the haughty Cairbar!
Bending on his spear, the gray-haired Colla came. His
downcast face is dark, and sorrow dwells in his soul.
His sword is on the side of the hero ; the helmet of
his fathers on his head. The battle grows in his
breast. He strives to hide the tear.
" ' Dar-thula, my daughter,' he said, ^ thou art the
last of Colla's race ! Truthil is fallen in battle. The
chief of 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 sunbeam of heaven, and thy friends
are low !' ' Is the son of battle fallen V I said, with a
bursting sigh. 'Ceased the generous soul of Truthil to
lighten through the field ? My safety, Colla, is in that
bow. I have learned to pierce the deer. Is not Cair-
bar like the hart of the desert, father of fallen Truthil V
" The face of age brightened with joy. The crowd-
ed tears of his eyes poured down. The lips of Colla
trembled. His gray beard whistled in the blast,
' Thou art the sister of Truthil,' he said ; ' thou burnest
in the fire of his soul. Take, Dar-thula, take that
spear, that brazen shield, that burnished helm ; they
are the spoils of a warrior, a son of early youth!
When the light rises on 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,
32
374 THE rOEMS OF OSSIAN.
Dar-thula. could once defend thee ; but age is trembling
on his hand. The strength of his arm has failed. Hii-
soul is darkened with grief.'
" We passed the night in sorrow. The light ol
morning rose. I shone in the arms of battle. The
gray-haired hero moved before. The sons of Selama
convened around the sounding shield of Colla. But few
were they in t-ha plain, and their locks were gray. The?
youths had fallen with Truthil, in the battle of car-borne
Cormac. ' Friends of my youth,' said Colla, ' it was
not thus you have seen me in arms. It was not thus I
strode to battle when the great Confaden fell. But ye
are laden with grief. The darkness of age comes like
the mist of the desert. My shield is worn with years !
my sword is fixed in its place !* 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 trem-
ble in my place. Where art thou, with thy fallen he-
roes, O my beloved Truthil ! Thou answerest not from
thy rushing blast. The soul of thy father is sad. But
I will be sad no more ! Cairbar or Colla must fall !
I feel the returning strength of my arm. My heart
leaps at the sound of war.'
" The hero drew his sword. The gleaming blades
of his people rose. They moved along the plain.
Their gray hair streamed in the wind. Cairbar sat at
the feast, in the silent plain of Lena. He saw tho
coming of the heroes. He called his chiefs to war
Why should I tell to Nathos how the strife of battlo
grew 1 I have seen thee in the midst of thousands, like
* It was the custom of ancient times, that every warrior, at a
certain age, or when he became unfit for the field fixed his arms
in the great hall, where the tribes feae-ted upon joyful GCcat=ioris.
He was afterward never to appear in battle ; and this stage of life
was called the " time of fixing the arms."
DAR-THULA. 375
the beam of heaven's fire : it is beautiful, but terrible ;
the people fall in its dreadful course. The spear of
Col la 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 Selama's maid. Joy rose on his dark-brown
face. He stayed his lifted steel. He raised the tomb
of Colla. He brought me weeping 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 Tru-
thil. 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 be-
fore the morning's beam. His host was not near ; and
feeble was his arm against thy steel ! Why art thou
sad, O Nathos ?" said the lovely daughter of Colla.
" I have met," replied the hero, " the battle in my
youth. My arm could not lift the spear when danger
first arose. My soul brightened in the presence of war,
as the green narrow vale, when the sun pours his
streamy beams, before he hides his head in a storm.
The lonely traveller feels a mournful joy. He sees the
darkness that slowly comes. My soul brightened in
danger before I saw Selama's fair ; before I saw thee,
like a star that shines on the hill at night ; the cloud
idvances, and threatens the lovely light ! We are in
.he land of foes. The winds have deceived us, Dar-
-iiula ! The strength of our friends is not near, nor
the mountains of Etha. Where shall I find thy peace,
daughter of mighty Colla ! The brothers of Nathos
are brave, and his own sword has shone in fight. But
what are the sons of Usnoth to the host of dark-brown
Cairbar ! O that the winds had brought thy sails, Oscar
king of men ! Thou didst promise to come to the bat-
376 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN.
ties of fallen Cormac ! Then would my hand be strong
as the flaming arm of death. Cairbar would tremble
in his halls, and peace dwell round the lovely Dar-thula.
But why dost thou fall, my soul ? The sons of Usnoth
may prevail !"
"And they will prevail, O Nathos !". said the rising
sou of the maid. " Never shall Dar-thula behold tho
hihs 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 bat-
tles 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 behola
them, spirits of my love !"
Joy rose in the face of Nathos when he heard the
white-bosomed maid. "Daughter of Selama! thou
shinest along my soul. Come, with thy thousands,
Cairbar ! the strength of Nathos is returned ! Thou,
O aged Usnoth ! shalt not hear that thy son has fled.
J remembered thy words on Etha, when my sails began
to rise : when I spread them towards Erin, towards the
mossy walls of Tura ! ' Thou goest,' he said, ' O Na-
thos, to the king of shields ! Thou goest to Cutliullin,
chief of men, who never fled from danger. Let not
thine arm be feeble : neither be thy thoughts of flight ;
k^st the son of Semo should say that Etha's race are
weak. His words may come to Usnoth, and sadden
his sou.' 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 V said the rising Lamhor. * The
DA R-THULA. 377
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 V
" ' 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 V ' He fell not,' Lamhor replied,
'like the silent star of night, when it flies through
darkness and is no more. But he was like a meteor
that shoots into a distant land. Death attends its dreary
course. Itself is the sign of wars. Mournful are the
banks of Lego ; and the roar of streamy Lara ! There
the hero fell, son of the noble Usnoth !' ' The hero
fell in the midst of slaughter,' I said with a bursting
sigh. ' His hand was strong in war. Death dimly
sat behind his sword.'
" We came to Lego's sounding banks. We found
his rising tomb. His friends in battle are there : his
bards of many songs. Three days we mourned over the
hero : on the fourth I struck the shield of Caithbat.
The heroes gathered around with joy, and shook their
beamy spears. Corlath was near with his host, the
friend of car-borne Cairbar. We came like a stream
by night. His heroes fell before us. When the peo-
ple of the valley rose, they saw their blood with morn-
ing's light. But we rolled away, like wreaths of mist,
to Cormac's echoing hall. Our SAvords rose to defend
the king. But Temora's halls were empty. Cormac
Lad 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
32*
378 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN.
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. Tliou camest in thy beauty,
Dar-thula, to Etha's mournful chief. But the winds
have deceived us, daughter of Colla, and the foe is
near !"
" Yes, the foe is near," said the rushing strength of
Althos. " I heard their clanging arms on the coast.
I saw the dark wreaths of Erin's standard. Distinct
is the voice of Cairbar ; loud as Cromla's falling stream.
He had seen the dark ship on the sea, before the dusky
night came down. His people watch on Lena's plain.
They lift ten thousand swords." " And let them lift
ten thousand swords," said Nathos with a smile. " The
sons of car-borne Usnoth will never tremble in danger !
Why dost thou roll with all thy foam, thou roaring sea
of Erin ? Why do ye rustle on your dark wings, ye
whistling storms of the sky 1 Do ye think, ye storms,
that ye keep Nathos on the coast ? No : his soul de-
tains him, children of the night ! Althos, bring my
father's arms : thou seest them beaming to the stars.
Bring the spear of Semo. It stands in the dark-bosomed
ship !"
He brought the arms. Nathos covered his limbs in
all their shining steel. The stride of the chief is lovely.
The joy of his eyes was terrible. He looks townrds
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
DAR-THULA. 379
ing steel, to meet the son of Usiioth ! 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 I 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 re-
joice in the midst of the rushing winds." " And my
voice shall praise thee, Nathos, chief of the woody
Etha ! The voice of Ossian shall rise in thy praise,
son of the generous Usnoth ! Why was I not on Lena
when the battle rose ? Then would the sword of Os-
sian defend thee, or himself fall low !"
We sat that night in Selma, round the strength of
the shell. The wind was abroad in the oaks. The
spirit of the mountain* 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. Fingal heard it the first. The crowded
sighs of his bosom rose. " Some of my heroes are
low," said the gray-haired king of Morven. " I hear
the sound of death on the harp. Ossian, touch the
trembling string. Bid the sorrow rise, that their spirits
may fly with joy to Morven's woody hills !" I touched
the harp before the king ; the sound was mournful and
low. " Bend forward from your clouds," I said,
" ghosts of my fathers ! bend. Lay by the red terror
of your course. Receive the fallen chief; whether he
comes from a distant land, or rises from the rolling sea.
* By the spirit of the mountain, is meant that deep and melan-
choly sound which precedes a storm, well known to tnose who Uv»
in a high country.
380 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN.
Let his robe of mist be near ; his spear that is formed
of a cloud. Place an half-extinguished meteor by his
side, in the form of the hero's sword. And, oh ! let
his countenance be lovely, that his friends may delight
in his presence. Bend from your clouds," I said,
" ghosts of my fathers ! bend !"
Such was my song in Selma. to the lightly-trembling
harp. But Nathos was on Erin's shore, surrounded
by the night. He heard the voice of the foe, amidst
the roar of tumbling waves. Silent he heard their
voice, and rested on his spear ! Morning rose, with
its beams. The sons of Erin appear : like gray rocks,
with all their trees, they spread along the coast. Cair-
bar stood in the midst. He grimly smiled when he
saw the foe. Nathos rushed forward in his strength :
nor could Dar-thula stay behind. She came with the
hero, lifting her shining spear. " And who are these,
in their armor, in the pride of youth ? Who brt tlio
sons of Usnoth, Althos and dark-haired Ardan ?''
" Come," said Nathos, "come, chief of high Temo-
ra ! Let our battle be on the coast, for the white-
bosomed maid. His people are not with Nathos : they
are behind these rolling seas. Why dost thou bring
thy thousands against the chief of Etha ? Thou didst
fly from him in battle, when his friends were around
his spear." " Youth of the heart of pride, shall Erin's
king fight with thee ? Thy fathers were not among
the renowned, nor of the kings of men. Are the arms
of foes in their halls ? or the shields of other times ?
Cairbar is renowned in Tcmora, 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
DAR-TIIULA. 381
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 with-
ered, and the heath was bare !
Dar-thula stood in silent grief, and beheld their fall !
No tear is in her eye. But her look is wildly sad.
Pale was her cheek. Her trembling lips broke short
an half-formed word. Her dark hair flew on wind.
The gloomy Cairbar came. " Where is thy lover
now ? the car-borne chief of Etha ? Hast thou be-
held the halls of Usnoth ? or the dark-brown hills of
Fingal '? My battle would have roared on Morven, had
not the winds met Dar-thula. Fingal himself would
have been low, and sorrow dwelling in Selma !" Her
shield fell from Dar-thula's arm. Her breast of snow
appeared. It appeared ; but it was stained with
blood. An arrow was fixed in her side. She fell
on the fallen Natlios, like a wreath of snow ! Her
hair spreads wide on his face. Their blood is mixing
round !
" Daughter of Colla ! thou art low !" said Cairbar 's
hundred bards. " Silence is at the blue streams of
Selama. Truthil's race have failed. When wilt thou
rise in thy beauty, first of Erin's maids ? Thy sleep
is lonjT in the tomb. The morning distant far. The
sun shall not come to thy bed and say. Awake, Dar-
thula ! awake, thou first of women ! the wind of spring
is abroad. The flowers shake their heads on the green
hills. The woods wave their growing leaves. Retire,
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. '^
382 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN.
Sucli 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 Gairbar !
THE DEATH OF CUTHULLIN.
ARGUMENT.
Cuthullin, after the anns of Fin^al had expelled Swaran from Ire-
land, continued to manage tne affairs of that kingdom as the
guardian of Corraac the young king. In the thira year of Cu-
thullin's administration, Torlath, the son of Cantela, rebelled in
Connaught: and advanced to Temora to dethrone Cormac. Cu-
thulUn 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 Cormac, though lor
some time supported by Nathos, as mentioned in the preceding
goem, fell into confusion at the death of Cuthullin. Cormac
imself was slain by the rebel Cairbar ; and the re-establiehment
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 l 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 Cuthul-
lin'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 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 vain !
Night comes rolling down. The face of ocean falls.
The heath-cock's head is beneath his wing. The hind
* Togorma, i. e. "the island of blue waves," one of the He.
brides.
384 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN.
sleeps with the liart of tlie 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 tlie night. When wilt thou come in thine arms,
O chief of Erin's wars ?"
Pleasant is thy voice in Ossian's ear, daughter of
car-borne Sorglan ! But retire to the hall of shells ;
to the beam of the burning oak. Attend to the mur-
mur of the sea : it rolls at Dunscai's walls : let sleep
descend on thy blue eyes. Let the hero arise in tliy
dreams !
Cuthullin sits at Lego'i lake, at the dark rolling of
waters. Night is aroui. ^ the hero. His thousands
spread on the I eath. A hundred oaks burn in the
midst. The feast of the. s 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, Connai, in the days W the gloomy storm ? The
chiefs of the south have convened against the car-borne
Cormac. The winds detain thy sails. Thy blue
waters roll around thee. But Cormac is not alone.
The son of Semo fights his wars ! Semo's son his
battles fights ! the terror of the stranger ! He that is
like the vapor of death, slowly borne by sultry winds.
The sun reddens in its presence ; the people fall
around."
Such was the song of Carril, when a son of the foe
appeared. He threw down his pointless spear. He
spoke the words of Torlath ; Torlath, chief of heroes,
from Lego's sable surge ! He that led his thousands
to battle, against car-borne Cormac. Cormac, who
was distant far, in Temora's echoing halls : he learned
to bend the bow of his fathers ; and to lift the spear.
Nor long didst thou lift the spear, mildly-shining
Uo-rfsands ppread on the hen;
THE DEAIH OF CUTHULLIN. 386
beam of youth ! death stands dim behind thee, like
the darkened half of the moon behind its growing
light. Cuthullin rose before the bard, that came
from generous Torlath. He offered him the shell of
joy. He honored the son of songs. " Sweet voice
of Lego !" he said, " what are the words of Torlath ?
Comes he to om* feast or battle, the car-borne son of
Cantela ?"
" He comes to thy battle," replied the bard, " to the
sounding strife of spears. When morning is gray on
Lego, Torlath will fight on the plain. Wilt thou meet
him, in thine arms, king of the isle of mist ? Terri-
ble is the spear of Torlath ! it is a meteor of night.
lie lifts it, and the people fall ! death sits in the light-
ning of his sword V' — " Do I fear," replied Cuthullin,
" the spear of car-borne Torlath ? He is brave as a
thousand heroes : but my soul delights in war ! The
sword rests not by the side of Cuthullin, bard of the
times of old ! Morning shall meet me on the plain,
and gleam on the blue arms of Semo's son. But sit
thou on the heath, O bard, and let us hear thy voice.
Partake of the joyful shell : and hear the songs of
Temora !"
" This is no timcj" replied the bard, " to hear the
song of joy : when the mighty are to meet in battle,
like the strength of the waves of Lego. Why art thou
so dark, Slimora ! with all thy silent woods ? No star
trembles on thy top. No moonbeam on thy side. But
the meteors of death are there : the gray watery forms
of ghosts. Why art thou dark, Slimora ! why thy
silent woods ?" He retired, in the sound of his song,
Carril joined his voice. The music was like the mem-
ory of joys that are past, pleasant and mournful to the
3oul. The ghosts of departed bards heard on Slimora's
side. Soft sounds spread along the wood. The silent
valleys of night rejoice. So when he sits in the silence
380 THE roEMs or ossian.
of the day, in the valley of his breeze, the humming
of the mountain bee comes to Ossian's ear : the gale
drowns it in its course : but the pleasant sound returns
again ! Slant looks the sun on the field ! gradual grows
the shade of the hill !
" Raise," said Cuthullin to his hundred bards, " the
song of the noble Fingal : that song which he hears
at night, when the dreams of his rest descend ; when
the bards strike the distant harp, and the faint light
gleams on Selma's walls. Or let the grief of Lara
rise : the sighs of the motlier 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 : Car-
ril alone is near the chief. The words of the song
were his : the sound of his harp was mournful.
" Alcletha with the aged locks ! mother of car-borne
Calmar ! why dost thou look towards the desert, to 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 sen
of Matha, daughter of my love V
'' ' It is but an aged oak, Alcletha !' replied the
lovely weeping Alona. ' It is but an oak, Alcle-
tha, bent over Lara's stream. But who comes along
the })lain ? sorrow is in his speed. He lifts high the
spear of Calmar. Alclelha, it is covered with blood!'—
* Alclethu speaks.
THE DEATH OF CUTHULLIN- 387
^^ ' * But it is covered with the blood of foes, sister of
'car-bornc Calmar ! His spear never returned unstained
witii 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 Alcietha I Does he return with his fame,
in the midst of his echoing shields ? Thou art dark
and silent ! Calmar is then no more ! Tell me not,
warrior, how he fell. I must not hear of his wound !'
Why dost thou look towards the desert, mother of low^
laid Calmar?"
Such was the song of Carril, when CuthuUin lay or
his shield. The bards rested on their harps. Sleep
fell softly around. The son of Semo was awake alone.
His soul fixed on war. The burning oaks began to
decay. Faint red light is spread around, A feeble
voice is heard ! The ghost cf Calmar came ! He
stalked dimly along the beam. Dark is the wound in
his side. His hair is disordered and loose, loy 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,
b Matha's son ! from the battles of Cormac ? Thy
hand was not feeble in war : neither was thy voice for
peace. How art thou changed, chief of Lara! if thou
now dost advise to fly ! But^ Calmar, I never fled. I
never feared the ghosts of night. Small is their know-
iedge, weak their hands ; their dwelling is in the winde
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 ! He retired in his blast
with joy, for he had heard the voice of his praise.''^
* Alcletha ^eaks.
388 THE roEMs or ossian.
The faint beam of the morning rose. Thii sound
of Cailhbat'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, Cu-
thullin," said the chief of Lego. " 1 know the strength
of thy arm. Thy soul is an unextinguished fire. Why
fight we not on the plain, and let our hosts behold our
deeds 'I Let them behold us like roaring waves, that
tumble round a rock ; the mariners hasten away, and
look on their strife with fear."
" Thou risest like the sun, on my soul, replied the
son of Semo. Thine arm is mighty, O Torlath ! and
worthy of my wrath. Retire, ye men of Ullin, to Sli-
mora's shady side. Behold the chief of Erin, in the
day of his fame. Carril, tell to mighty Connal, if Cu-
thulhn must fall, tell him I accuoed the winds, which
roar on Togorma's waves. Never was he absent in
battle, when the strife of my fame, arose. Let his
sword be before Cormac, like the beam of heaven.
Let his counsel sound in Temora, in the day of
danger !"
He rushed, in the sound of his arms-, like the terrible
spirit of Loda, when he comes, in the roar of a thou-
sand storms, and scatters battles from his eyes. He
sits on a cloud over Lochlin's seas. His mighty hand
is on his sword. Winds lift his flaming locks ! The
waning moon half lights his dreadful face. His fea-
tures blended in darkness arise to view. So terrible
was Cuthullin in the day of his fame. Torlath fell by
his hand. Lego's heroes mourned. They gather
around the chief, like the clouds of the desert. A
thousand swords rose at once ; a thousand arrows flew ;
but he stood like a rock in the midst of a roaring sea.
They fell around. He strode in blood. Dark Slimora
echoed wide. The sons of Ullin came. The battle
THE DEATH OF CXJTHUI.LIN. 389
spread over Lego. The chief of Erin overcame. He
returned over the field with his fame. But pale he
returned ! The joy of his face was dark. He rolled
h>s eyes in silence. The sword hung, unsheathed, in
his hand. His spear bent at every step !
" Carril," said the chief in secret, " the strength of
Cuthullin fails. My days are with the years that are
past. No morning of mine shall arise. They shall
seek me at Temora, but I shall not be found. Cormac
will weep in his hall, and say. Where is Erin's chief?
But my name is renowned ! my fame in the song of
bards. The youth will say, in secret, O let me die as
Cuthullin died ! Renown clothed him like a robe. The
light of his fame is great. — Draw the arrow from my
side. Lay Cuthullin beneath that oak. Place the
shield of Caithbat near, that they may behold me amidst
the arms of my fathers !"
" And is the son of Semo fallen ?" said Carril with
a sigh. " Mournful are Tura's walls. Sorrow dwells
at 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 ? he will say. The soul of his mother is
sad. Who is that, like the hart of the desert, in the
murmur of his course ? His eyes look wildly round in
search of his friend. Connal, son of Colgar, where
nast thou been, when the mighty fell ? Did the seas of
Togorma roll around thee ? Was the wind of the south
in thy sails'? The mighty have fallen in battle, and
thou wast not there. Let none tell it in Selma, nor in
Morven's woody land. Fingal will be sad, and the
sons of the desert mourn !"
By the dark-rolling waves of Lego they raised the
Hero's tomb. Luath, at a distance, lies. The song
df bards rose over the dead .
:^3*
390 THE rOET-JS OF OSSIAN,
" * 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 be-
hind thy sword. Blest be thy soul, son of Semo, car-
borne chief of Dunsciii ! 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 1
" The mighty am dispersed at Temora ; there 'm
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 teal's, daughter of car-borne
Sorglan! Blest be thy soul in death, O chief of shady
Tura !"
♦ This is the song af the bards over CuthalliE's tomb.
THE BATTLE OF LOR A.
ARGUMENT.
I'lAgal, oij his return iVoui Ireland, alter he had expeLed Swaran
from that kingdom, made a feast to all his heroes : he forgot to
invite Ma-ronnan and Aldo, two chiefs, who had not been alon^
with him in his expedition. They resented his neglect ; and
went over to Erragon, king of Sora, a country of Scandinavia.
the declared enemy of Fiiigal. The valor of Aldo soon gained
him a great reputation in Sora ; and Lorma, the beautiful wife
of Erragon, fell in love with him. He iound means to escape
with her, and to come to Fingal, who resided then in Selma, on
the western coast. Erragon mvaded Scotland, and was slain in
battle by Gaul, the son of Morni, after he had rejected terrns of
peace otlered him by Fingal. In this war Aldo fell, in a single
combat, by the hands of his rival En^agon, and the unfortunate
Lorma afterward died of griet".
Son of the distant land, who dweliest 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 I 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 com,es roaring down, and send.s
it.s waters round a green hiJl. Four mos.sy stones, in
the midst of withered grass, rear their heads on the
top. Two trees which the storms have bent, spread
their whistling branches around. This is thy dwelling,
Erragon ; this thy narrow house ; the sound of thy
shells has been long forgot in Sora. Thy shield is be-
come dark in thy hall. Erragon, king of ships, chief
of distant Sora ! how hast thou fallen on our mount-
392 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN.
ains? How is the miglity low? Son of the secret cell!
dost thou delight in songs ? Hear the battle of Lora.
The sound of its steel is long since past. So thunder
on the darkened hill roars and is no more. The sun
returns with his silent beams. The glittering rocks,
and the green heads of the mountains, smile.
The bay of Cona received our ships from Erin's
rollinii; waves. Our white sheets hung loose to the
masts. The boisterous winds roared behind the groves
of Morven. The horn of the king is sounded ; the
deer start from their rocks. Our arrows flew in the
woods. The feast of the hill is spread. Our joy was
great on our rocks, for the fall of the terrible Swaran.
Two heroes were forgot at our feast. The rage of
their bosoms burned. They rolled their red eyes in
secret. The sigh bursts from their breasts. They
were seen to talk together, and to throw their spears
on earth. They were two dark clouds in the midst of
our joy; like pillars of mist on the settled sea : they
glitter to the sun, but the mariners fear a storm.
" Raise my white sails," said Ma-ronnan, " raisG
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
Sorn. His countenance is fierce. War darkens
around his spear. Let us be renowned, O Aldo, in
the battles of other lands I"
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 loftv
THE BATTLE OF LOR A. 393
walls. From her tower looked the spouse of Erragon,
the humid, rolUiig eyes of Lorma. Her yellow hair
flics on the wind of ocean. Her white breast heaves,
like snow on heath; when the gentle winds arise, and
slowly move it in the light. She saw young Aldo, like
the beam of Sora's setting sun. Her soft heart sighed.
Tears filled her eyes. Her white arm supported her
head. Three days she sat within the hall, and covered
her grief with joy. On the fourth she fled with the
hero, along the troubled sea. They came to Cona's
mossy towers, to Fingal king of spears.
" Aldo of the heart of pride !" said Fingal, rising in
wrath; "shall I defend thee from the rage of Sora's
injured king? Who will now receive my people into
their halls ? Who will give the feast of strangers, since
Aldo of the little soul has dishonored my name in Sora?
Go to thy hills, thou feeble hand ! Go : hide thee in
thy caves. Mournful is the battle we must fight with
Sora's gloomy king. Spirit of the noble Trenmor !
v/hen will Fingal 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 overturn my halls !
when my children are dead in battle, and none remains
to dwell in Selma. Then will the feeble come, but
they will not know my tomb. My renown is only in
song. My deeds shall be as a dream to future times!"
His people gathered around Erragon, as the storms
round the ghosts of night ; when he calls them from
the top of Morven, and prepares to pour them on the
lana of tlie stranger. He came to the shore of Cona.
^ Comhal, tne father of Fiiigal, was slain in battle, against the
tribe of Morai, the very da^- that Fingal was born; so iliat he may.
with propriety, be said to have been "bom in the midst of battles."
394 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN.
He sent his bard to tlio king to demand the combat of
tliousands: or the land of many hills! Fingal satin
liis hall with the friends of his youth around him. The
young heroes were at the chase, far distant in the des-
ert. The gray-haired chiefs talked of other times ;
of the actions of their youth ; when the aged Nartmor
came, the chief of streamy Lora.
" This is no time," said Nartmor, "to hear the songs
of other years : Erragon frowns on the coast, and lifts
ten thousand swords. Gloomy is the king among liis
chiefs ! he is like the darkened moon amidst the meteors
of night ; when they sail along her skirts, and give the
light that has failed o'er her orb." "Come," said
Fingal, "from thy hall, come, daughter of my love:
come from thy hall, Bosmina, maid of streamy Mor-
ven ! Nartmor, take the steeds of the strangers. At-
tend the daughter of Fingal ! Let her bid the king of
Sora to our feast, to Sclma's shaded wall. Offer him,
O Bosmina ! the peace of heroes, and the wealth of
generous Aldo. Our youths are far distant. Age is
on our trembling hands!"
She came to the host of Erragon, like a beam of
light to a cloud. In her right hand was seen a spark-
ling shell. In her left an arrow of gold. The first,
the joyful mark of peace ! The latter, the sign of war.
Erragon brightened in her presence, as a rock before
the sudden beams of the sun ; when they issue from a
broken cloud divided by the roaring wind !
" Son of the distant Sora," began the mildly. blush-
ing maid, " come to the feast of Morven's king, to
Selma's shaded walls. Take the peace of heroes,
O warrior ! Let the dark sword rest by thy side.
Choosest thou the wealth of kings ? Then hear the
words of generous Aldo. He gives to Erragon a hun-
dred steeds, the children of the rein ; a hundred maids
from distant lands; a hundred hawks with fluttering
THE BATTLE OF LOR A. 395
wing, that fly across the sky. A hundred girdles*
shall also be tiiinc, to bind high-bosomcd 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 worId,f in the midst of their echoing
halls. These, O hero ! shall be thine ; or thy white-
bosomed spouse. Lorma shall roll her bright eyes in
thy halls ; though Fingal loves the generous Aldo :
Fingal, who never injured a hero, though his arm is
strong !"
" Soft voice of Cona !" replied the king, " tell him,
he spreads his feast in vain. Let Fingal pour his
spoils around me. Let him bend beneath my power.
Let him give me the swords of his fathers : the shields
of other times ; that my children may behold them in
my halls, and say, ' These are the arms of Fingal !' "
"Never shall they behold them in thy halls," said the
rising pride of the maid. " They are in the hands of
heroes, who never yield in war. King of echoing
Sora ! the storm is gathering on our hills. Dost thou
not foresee the fall of thy people, son of the distant
land ?"
She came to Selma's silent halls. The king beheld
her downcast eyes. He rose from his place, in his
strength. He shook his aged locks. He took the
sounding mail of Trenmor. The dark-brown shield
of his fathers. Darkness filled Selma's hall, when he
* Sanctified girdles, tilt very lately, were kept in many families
in the north of Scotland ; they were bound about women in labor,
and were supposed to alleviate their pains, and to accelerate the
birth. They were impressed with several mystical figures, and the
ceremony of binding them about the woman's waist, was accom-
panied with words and gestures, which showed the custom to have
come originally from the Dndds
\ The Roninn emperors
390 THE i'OE;vrs of ossian.
stretched liis hand to the spear : the ghosts of thou-
sands were near, and foresaw the death of the people.
Terrible joy rose in the face of the aged heroes. They
rushed to meet the foe. Their thoughts are on the
deeds of otlier years : and on the fame tliat rises from
death !
Now at Trathal's ancient tomb the dogs of the chase
appeared. Fingal knew that his young heroes follow-
ed. He stopped in the midst of his course. Oscar
appeared the first ; then Morni's son, and Nemi's race.
Fercuth showed his gloomy form. Dermid spread his
dark hair on wind. Ossian came the last. I hummed
the song of other times. My spear supported my steps
over the little streams. My thoughts were of mighty
men. Fingal struck liis 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 sunbeam
of battle flew on the wind. The friends of his youth
are near, with all their waving locks of age. .Toy rose
in the hero's eyes when he Ijeheld 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.
" Who comes," said Fingal, " like the bounding
roe ; like the hart of echoing Cona ? His shield glit-
ters on his side. The clang of his arnior is mournful.
He meets with Erragon in the strife. Behold the
battle of the chiefs ! It is like the contending of ghosta
in a gloomy storm. But fallest thou, son of the hili,
THE P.AT']'r,K OF T.OKA, 'IDT
and is thy white bosom stained with blood ? Wocp,
unhappy Lornna ! Aide is no niore !" 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 tho
chiefs ? The mighty stranger fell ! " Sons of Cona V
Fingal cried aloud, " stop the hand of death, flighty
was he that is low. Much is he mourned in Sora !
The stranger will come towards his hall, and wonder
why it is so silent. The king is fallen, O stranger !
The joy of his house is ceased. Listen to the sound
of his woods ! Perhaps his ghost is murmuring there !
But he is far distant, on Morven, beneath the sword
of a foreign foe." Such were the words of Fingal,
when the bard raised the song of peace. We stopped
our uplifted swords. We spared the feeble foe. Wo
laid Erragon in a tomb. I raised the voice of grief.
The clouds of night cam.e rolling down. The ghost
of Erragon appeared to some. His face was cloudy
and dark ; a half-formed sigh in his breast. '- Blest
be thy soul, king of Sora ! thine arm was terrible
in war !"
Lorma sat in Aide'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 1 Come from
thy sounding hills, O my best beloved !''
Her eyes are turned towards the gate. She listens
to the rustling blast. She thinks it is Aide'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 beheld the face of the hill. Tiie moon
is in the east. Calm and bright i'^ tlm breast of the
398 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN.
lake ! When shall I behold his dogs, returning from
the chase ? When shall I hear his voice, loud and dis-
tant 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 arounn
thee ; and the soul of Lorma come on a feeble beam ;
when thou liest down to rest, and the moon looks into
thy cave. Then shalt thou see her lovely ; but the
i,ear is still on her cheek !
TEMORA.
AN EPIC POEM.
BOOK I.
ARGUMENT.
Cairbar, the son of Borbar-duthul, lord of Atha, in Connaught, the
most potent chief of the race of the Fir-bolg, having murdered,
at Temora, the royal palace, Cormac, the son of Artho, the young
king of Ireland, usurped the throne. Cormac was lineally de-
ec(;nded from Conar, the son of Trenmor, the great-^randtather
of Fingal, king of those Caledonians who inhabited the western
coast of Scotland. Fingal resented the behavior of Cairbar, and
resolved to pass over into Ireland with an army, to re-establish
the royal family on the Irish throne. Early intelligence of his
designs coming to Cairbar, he assembled some of nis tribes in
Ulsterj and at the same time ordered his brother Cathmor to fol-
low him speedily with an army from Teniora. Such was the
situation of affairs when the Caledonian invaders appeared on
the coast of Ulster.
The poem opens in the morning. Cairbar is represented as retired
from the rest of the army, when one ol" his scouts brought him
news of the landing of Fingal. He assembles a council of his
chiefs. Foldath, tne chief of Moma, haughtily despises the
enemy ; and is reprimanded warmly by Malthos. Cairbar, after
hearing their debate, orders a feast to be prepared, to which, by
his bard Gila, he invites Oscar, the son of Ossian ; resolving to
pick a quarrel with that hero, and so have some pretext for kill-
ing 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 rehef of Oscar, and the Irish fell back to the
army of Cathmor, who was advanced to the banks of the river
Lubar, on the heath of Moi-lena. Fingal, after mourning over
his grandson, ordered UUin, the chief of his bards, to carry hia
body to Morven, to be there interred. Night coming on, Althan,
the son of Conacliar, relates to the king the particulars of the
murder of Cormac. Fillan, the son of Fingal, is sent to observe
the motions of Cathmor, by night, which concludes the action
of the first day. The scene of this book is a plain, near the hill of
Mora, which rose on the borders of the heath of Moi-lena in Ulster
The blue waves of Erin roll in light. The moun-
tains are covered with day. Trees shake their dusky
heads in the breeze. Gray torrents pour their noisy
lOO TllK I'oKMS OF OSSIAN'.
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 sup-
ports the king : the red eye of his fear is sad. Cormac
rises in his soul, with all his ghastly wounds. The gray
form of the youth appears in darkness. Blood pours
from his airy side. Cairbar thrice threw his spear on
earth. Thrice he stroked his beard. His stejjs are
short. He often stops. He tosses his sinewy arms.
He is like a cloud in the desert, varying its form to
every blast. The valleys are sad around, and fear, by
turns, the shower ! The king at length resumed his
soul. He took his pointed spear. He turned his eye
to Moi-lena. The scouts of blue ocean came. They
came with steps of fear, and often looked behind.
Cairbar knew that the mighty were near. He called
his gloomy chiefs.
The sounding steps of his warriors came. They
drew at once their swords. There Moruth 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 fac(^ His
lips are trembling pale !
" Do the chiefs of Erin stand," he said, " silent ns
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 sigli. " Arc
TEMORA. 401
his heroes many on the coast ? Lifts he the spear of
battle ? or comes the king in peace ?" " In peace he
comes not, king of Erin ; I have seen his forward
spear.* It is a meteor of death. The blood of thou-
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 Morni's son, the
first of men. Connal leaps forward on his spear.
Dormid spreads his dark-brown locks. Fillan bends
his bow, the young hunter of streamy Moruth. But
who is that before them, like the terrible course of a
stream ? It is the son of Ossian, bright between his
locks ! His long hair falls on his back. His dark
brows are half enclosed in steel. His sword hangs
loose on his side. His spear glitters as he moves. I
fled from his terrible eyes, king of high Temora !"
" Then fly, thou feeble man," said Foldath's gloomy
wrath. '' Fly to the gray streams of tliy land, son of
the little soul ! Have not I seen that Oscar ? I beheld
the chief in war. He is of tlie mighty in danger : but
there are others who lift the spear. Erin has many
sons as brave, king of Temora of groves. Let Foldath
meet him in his strength. Let me stop tliis mighty
stream. My spear is covered with blood, My shield
is like the wall of Tura !"
"Shall Foldath alone meet the foe ' '" rcf)licd the
dark-browed Malthos ? "Are they not on our coast,
* Mor-annal here alludes to the paiticiilar appearance olFinpil's
epear. If a maa upon his first landnig in a strange country, kfpt
the point ot his spear forward, it denoted, in thooe daj's, tJial he
came in a hostile manner, and accordingly he was treated as an
enemy ; if he kept the point hehind him, it ^vas a token of friend-
Bhip, and he was immeaiately invited to flic fea^-t. according to the
hospitality of the times.
84*
402 THE POEMS OF OSSIAK.
like the wator?? of many streams ? Are not tliese the
chiefs who vanquished Svvaran, when the sons of green
Erin fled ? Shall Foldath meet their bravest hero ?
Foldath of the heart of pride ! Take the strength of
the people ! and let Malthos come. My sword is red
with slaughter, but who has heard my words ?"
" Sons of green Erin/' said Hidalla, " let not Fingal
hear your words. The foe might rejoice, and his arm
be strong in the land. Ye are brave, O warriors ! Ye
are tempests in war. Ye are like storms, which meet
the rocks without fear, and overturn the woods ! But
let us move in our strength, slow as a gathered cloud !
Then shall the mighty tremble ; the spear shall fall
iVom the hand of the valiant. We see the cloud of
death, they will say, while shadows fly over their face.
Fingal will mourn in his age. He shall behold his
flying fame. The steps of his chiefs will cease in
Morven. The moss of years shall grow in Selma !"
Cairbar heard their words in silence, like the cloud
of a shower : it stands dark on Cromla, till the light-
ning bursts its side. The valley gleams with hcavcn'.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 011a, 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 thou-
sands, 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
TEMORA. 403
burns ! He shall fall on Moi-lena. My fame shall rise
in blood !"
Their faces brightened round with joy. Th^y 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-hnired
Cairbar. Their souls were not the same. The light
of heaven was in the bosom of Cathmor. His towers
rose on the banks of Atha : seven paths led to his halls.
Seven chiefs stood on the paths, and called the stranger
to the feast ! But Cathmor dwelt in the wood, to shun
the voice of praise !
OUa came with his songs. Oscar went to Cairbar's
feast. Three hundred warriors strode along Moi-lena
of the streams. The gray dogs bounded on the heath :
their howling reached afar. Fingal saw the departing
hero. The soul of the king was sad. He dreaded
Cairbar's gloomy thoughts, amidst the feast of shells.
My son raised high the spear of Cormac. A hundred
bards met him with songs. Cairbar concealed, with
smiles, the death that was dark in his soul. The feast
is spread. The shells resound. Joy brightens the
face of the host. But it was like the parting beam of
the sun, when he is to hide his red head in a storm !
Cairbar rises in his arms. Darkness gathers on his
brow. The hundred harps cease at once. The clang
of shields* is heard. Far distant on the heath OUa
raised a song of wo. My son knew the sign of
death ; and rising seized his spear. " Oscar," said the
dark-red Cairbar, '• I behold the spear of Erin. The
spear of Temo.-a glitters in thy hand, son of woody
* 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
Ume that a bard at a distance raised the death-song
404 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN.
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
clangino; shield ? Tremble I at Olla's song ? No :
Cairbar, frighten the feeble ; Oscar is a rock !"
" Wilt thou not yield the spear ?" replied the rising
pride of Cairbar. " Are thy words so mighty, because
Fingal is near ? Fingal with aged locks, from Mor-
ven's hundred groves ! He has fought with little men.
But he must vanish before Cairbar, like a thin pillar (,{
mist before the winds of Atha !" — "Were he wiu
fought with little men, near Atha's haughty chief, Atha's
chief would yield green Erin to avoid his rage ! Speak
not of the mighty, O Cairbar ! Turn thy sword on
me. Our strength is equal : but Fingal is renowned !
the first of mortal men !"
Their people saw the darkening chiefs. Their crowd-
ing steps are heard. Their eyes roll in fire. A thou-
sand swords are half unsheathed. Red-haired 011a
raised the song of battle. The trembling joy of Oscar's
soul arose : the wonted joy of his soul when Fingal's
horn was heard. Dark as the swelling wave of ocean
before the rising winds, when it bends its head near
tlie 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 oeforo
my hero fell !
Behold they fall before my son, like groves in the
TEMORA. 405
desert ; when an angry ghost rushes through night, and
takes their green heads in his hand ! Morlath falls.
Maronnan dies. Conacliar trembles in his blood I
Cairbar shrinks before Oscar's sword ! He creeps in
darkness behind a stone. He lifts the spear in secret ;
he pierces my Oscar's side ! He falls forward on his
shield, his knee sustains the chief. But still his spear
is in his hand ! See, giooiny Cairbar falls! The steel
pierced liis forehead, and divided his red hair behind.
He lay lik(3 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 bis terrible hand. Erin's
sons stand distant and dark. Their shouts arise, like
crowded streams. Moi-lena echoes wide. Fingal
heard the sound. He took the spear of Selma. His
steps are before us on the heath. He spoke the words
of wo. *' I hear the noise of war. Yoing Oscar is
alone. Rise, sons of Morven : join the hero's sword !"
Ossian rushed along the heath. Fillan bounded over
Moi-lena. Fingal strode in his strength. The light
of his shield is terrible. The sons of Erin saw it far
distant. They trembled in their souls. They knew
that the wrath of the king arose : and they foresaw
their death. We first arrived. We fought. Erin's
chiefs withstood our rage. But when the king came,
in the sound of his course, what heart of steel could
stand 1 Erin fled over Moi-lena. Death pursued their
flight. We saw Oscar on his shield. We saw his
blood around. Silen-ce darkened on every face. Each
turned his back and wept. The king strove to hide
his tears. His gray beard whistled in the wind. He
bonds his head above the chief. His words are mixed
with sighs.
" Art thou fallen, Oscar ! in the midst of thy
406 THE POEMS OF OSSIAiv.
course 1 the heart of the aged beats over thee ! IIo
sees thy coming wars ! The wars which ought to
come he sees ! They are cut off from thy fame ! When
shall joy dwell at Selma ? When shall grief depart from
Morven ? My sons fall by degrees : Fingal is the last
of his race. My fame begins to pass away. Mine
age will be without friends. I shall sit a gray cloud
in my hall. I shall not hear the return of a son, in his
sounding arms. Weep, ye heroes of Morven ! never
more shall Oscar rise !"
And they did weep, O Fingal ! Dear was the hero
to their souls. He went out to battle, and the foes
vanished. He returned in peace, amidst their joy. No
father mourned his son slain in j^^outh : 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 ni}'- dogs ; the sudden bursts of the song
of grief, have melted Oscar's soul. My soul, that
never melted before. It was like the steel of my sword.
Ossian, carry me to my hills ! Raise the stones of my
renown. Place the horn of a deer : place my sword
by my side. The torrent hereafter may raise the earth ;
the hunter may find the steel, and say, < This has been
Oscar's sword, the pride of other years !' " " Fallest
thou, son of my fame ? shall I never see thee, Oscar ?
When others hear of their sons, slmll 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 ; ' 1 have seen a tomb,' he will
say, ' by the roaring stream, the dark dwelling of a
TEMORA. 407
chief. He fell by car-borne Oscar, the first of mortal
men.' I, perhaps, shall hear his voice. A beam of
joy will rise in my soul."
Night would have descended in sorrow, and 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
fj'om dreams, lift up their lieads around.
" How long on Moi-lena shall we weep 1 How long
j)uur 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 fcjthers, 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
o*i* 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 be-
gar, 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
408 THE roEMt; or ossiak.
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 1
Night came rolling down. The light of a hundred
oaks arose. Fingal sat beneath a tree. Old Althan
stood in the midst. He told tlie tale of fallen Cormac.
Althan the son of Conachar, the friend of car-borne
CiiihuUin. He dwelt with Cormac in windy Temora,
when Semo's son fell at Lego's stream. The tale of
Althan was moui-nful. The tear was in his eye when
he spoko.
• '" The setting slui was yellow on Dora. Gray even
iuo; bcijan to descend. Temora's woods shook with
the blast of the inconstant wind.^ A cloud gathered in
the west. A. rod star looked from behind its edge. 1
slood in the wood alone. I saw a ghost on the dark-
cning air ! His stride extended from hill to hill. His
shield was dim on his side. It was the son of Semo
1 knew the warrior's face. But he passed away in hia
blast ; and all was dark around ! My soul was sad. 1
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 re-
joices on the eastern hill, and its young beams are
bathed in showers. Bright and silent is its progress
aloft, but the cloud that shall hide it is near ! The
sword of Artho was in the hand of the king. He
looked with joy on its polished studs j thrice he at=
tempted to draw it, and thrice he failed ; his yellow
locks are spread on his shoulders! his cheeks of youth
are red. I mourned over the beam of youth, for he
was soon to set !
" ' Althan !' he said with a smile, ' didst thou behold
my father ? Heavy is the sword of the king ; surely
his arm was strong. that 1 were like him in battle,
TEMORA. 409
when the rage of his wrath arose ! then would I have
met, with CuthuUin, the car-borne son of Cantela ! But
years may come on, O Althan ! and my arm be strong.
Hast thou heard of Sem.o'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.'
" 1 heard Cormac in silence. My tears began to
flow. I hid them with my aged locks. The king per-
ceived my grief. ' Son of Conachar !' he said, ' is the
son of Semo low ? Why bursts the sigh in secret ?
Why descends the tear ? Comes the car-borne Tor-
lath ? Comes the sounds of red-haired Cairbar ? They
come ! for I behold thy grief. Mossy Tura's chief is
low ! Shall I not rush to battle ? But I cannot lift the
spear ! O had mine arm the strength of Cuthullin,
soon would Cairbar fly ; the fame of my fathers would
be renewed ; and the deeds of other times !'
" He took his bow. The tears flow down from both
his sparkling eyes. Grief saddens round. The bards
bend forward, from their hundred harps. The lone
blast touched their trembling strings. The sound* is
sad and low ! a voice is heard at a distance, as of one
in grief. It was Carril of other times, who came from
dark Slimora. He told of the fall of Cuthullin. He
told of his mighty deeds. The people were scattered
round his tomb. Their arms lay on the ground.
They had forgot the war, for he their sire, was seen
no more !
" ' But who,' said the soft- voiced Carril, ' who come
like bounding roes ? Their stature is like young trees
in the valley, growing in a shower ! Soft and ruddy
aie their cheeks ! Fearless souls look forth from their
* That prophetic sound, mentioned in other poeina, which the
harps of the bards emitted before the death of a person worthy
and renowned.
35
410 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN.
eyes ? Who but the sods of Usnoth, chief of streamy
Etha ? The people rise on every side, like the strength
of an hn.lf-cxtinguished fire, when the winds come, sud-
den, from the desert, on their rustUng wings. Sudden
glows the dark brow of the hill ; the passing mariner
lags, on his winds. The sound of Caitlibat's shield
was heard. The warriors saw Cuthullin in Nathos.
So rolled his sparkling eyes ! his steps were such on
the heath. Battles arc fought at Lego. The swoi-d
of Nathos prevails. Soon shaltthou behold him in thy
halls, king of Temora of groves 1'
" 'Soon may I behold the chief!' replied tlie bkie.
eyed king. ' But my soul is sad for Cuthullin. His
voice was pleasant in mine ear. Often have we moved,
on Dora, to the chase of the dark-brown hinds. His
bow was unerring on the hills. He spoke of mighty
men. He told of the deeds of my fathers. I felt my
rising joy. But sit thou at thy feast, O Carril ! I have
often heard thy voice. Sing in praise of Cuthullin.
Sing of Nathos of Etha V
" 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 !
a cloud it seemed at first, but now a crowd of men !
One strides before them in his strength. His red hair
flies in the wind. His shield glitters to the beam of
the east. His spear is in his hand.' — 'Call him to
the feast of Temora,' replied the brightening king.
* My hall is in the house of strangers, son of generous
Gellama ! It is perhaps the chief of Etha, coming in
all his renown. Hail, mighty stranger ! art thou of
the friends of Cormac 1 But, Carril, he is dark and un-
lovely. He draws his sword. Is that the son of Us-
noth, bard of the times of old V
" ' It is not the son of Usnoth !' said Carril. ' It is
(^irbar, thy foe.' 'Why comest thou in thy arms to
TEMORA . 41jl
Temora ? chief of the gloomy brow. Let not thy
sword rise against Cormac ! Whither dost thou turn
thy speed V 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
[lis arm is weak.' The sword entered the side of the
king. He fell in the halls of his father. His fair hair
is in the dust. His blood is smoking round.
'• ' Art tliou fallen in thy halls?' said Carril, 'O son
of noble Artho ! The shield of Cuthullin was not near.
Nor the spear of thy father. Mournful are the moun-
tains of Erin, for the chief of the people is low ! Blest
be thy soul, O Cormac ! Thou art darkened in thy
youth !' "
" His words came to the ears of Cairbar. He closed
us in the midst of darkness. He feared to stretch his
sword to the bards, though his soul was dark. Long
we pined alone ! At length the noble Cathmor came.
He heard our voice from the cave. He turned the eye
of his wrath on Cairbar.
" ' Brother of Cathmor,' he said, 'how long wilt thou
pain my soul ? Thy heart is a rock. Thy thoughts
are dark and bloody ! But thou art the brother of Cath-
mor ; and Cathmor shall shine in thy war. But my
soul is not like thine ; thou feeble hand in fight ! The
light of my bosom is stained with thy deeds. Bards
will not sing of my renown ; they may say, " Cathmor
was brave, but he fought for gloomy Cairbar." They
will pass over my tomb in silence. My fame shall not
be heard. Cairbar! loose the bards. They are the
sons of future timies. Their voice shall be heard in
other years; after the kings of Temora have failed.
We came forth at the words of the chief. We saw
him in his strength. He was like thy youth, O Fingal !
when thou first didst lift the spear. His face was like
412 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN.
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
vapor that hovers round the marshy lake. It never
rises on the green hill, lest the winds should meet it
there. Its dwelling is in the cave : it sends forth the
dirt of death ! Our young heroes, O warriors! are like
the renown of our fathers. They fight in youth. They
fall. Their names are in sono;. Finojal is amid his
darl;ening 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 V he says, and, whistling, strides along.
Raise the song of joy, ye bards of Morven ! Let our
souls forget the past. The red stars look on us from
the clouds, and silently descend. Soon shall the gray
beam of the morning rise, and show us the foes of Cor-
mac. 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 Fiugal ; observe
the course of generous Cathmor. I hear a distant
sound, like falling rocks in the desert. But strike thou
thy shield, at times, that they may not come through
night, and the fame of Morven cease. I begin to be
alone, my son. I dread the fall of my renown !"
The voice of bards arose. The king leaned on tlie
shield of Trenmor. Sleep descended on his eyes.
His future battles arose in his dreams. The host are
sleeping around. Dark-haired Fillan observes the foe.
His steps are on the distant hill. We hear, at times,
his clanging shield.
BOOK 11.
ARGUMENT.
Tiiw? book opens, we may suppose, about midnight, with a soliJoqiiy
of Ossian, who had retired iVom the rest of the army, to mourn
for his son Oscar Upon hearing the noise of Cathmor's army
approaching, he went to find out his brother Fillan, who kept the
watch on the hill of Mora, in the front of Fingal's army. In the
conversation of the brothers, the episode of Conar, the son of
Trenmor, who was the first king of Ireland, is introduced, which
lays open the origin of the contests between the Gael and the Fir-
bolg, tne two nations who first possessed themselves of that island.
Ossian kindles a fire on Mora: upon which Cathmor desisted
from the design he had formed of surprising the army of the Cale-
donians. He' calls a council of his chiefs: reprimands Foldath
for advising a night attack, as the Irish were so much superior in
number tolhe enemy. The bard Fonar introduces the story of
Crothar, the ancestor of the king, which throws further hght on
the history of Ireland, and the original pretensions of the family
of Atha to the throne of that kingdom. The Irish chiefs he down
to rest, and Cathmor himself undertakes the watch. In his cir-
cuit round the army he is met by Ossian. The interview of the
two heroes is described. Cathmor obtains a promise from Ossian
to order a funeral elegy to be sung over the grave of Cairbar: it
being the opinion of the times, that the souls of the dead could
not be happy till their elegies were sun^ by a bard. Morning
comes. Cathmor and Ossian part ; and the latter, casually meet-
ing with Carril the son of Kinfena, sends that bard, with a funeral
song, to the tomb of Cairbar.
Father of heroes ! O Trenmor ! High dweller of
eddying winds ! where the dark-red thunder marks the
troubled clouds ! Open thou thy stormy halls. Let the
bards of old be near. Let them draw near with songa
and their half viewless harps. No dweller of misty
valley comes ! No hunter unknown at his streams !
It is the car-borne Oscar, from the field of war. Sud-
den is thy change, my son, from what thou wert on
dark Moi-lena ! The blast folds thee in its skirt, and
rustles through the sky ! Dost thou not behold thy fa-
ther, at the stream of night ? The chiefs of Morven
sleep far distant. They have lost no son ! But ye have
35*
414 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN.
lost a hero, chiefs of resounding Morvcn ! Who could
equal his strength, when battle rolled against his side,
like the darkness of crowded waters ? Why this cloud
on Ossian's soul ? It ought to burn in danger. Erin
is near with her host. The king of Selma is alone.
Alone thou shalt not be, my father, while 1 can lift the
spear !
I rose in all my arms. I rose and listened to the
wind. The shield of Fillan is not heard. I tremble
for the son of Fingal. " Why should the foe come by
night ? Why should the dark-haired warrior fall ?"
Distant, sullen murmurs rise ; like the noise of the lake
of Lego, when its waters shrink, in the days of frost,
and all its bursting ice resounds. The people of Lara
look to heaven, and foresee the storm ! My steps are
forward on the heath. The spear of Oscar is in my
hand ? Red stars looked from high. I gleamed along
the night.
I saw Fillan silent before me, bending forward from
Mora's rock. He heard the shout of the foe. The
joy of his soul arose. He heard my sounding tread,
and turned his lifted spear. " Comest thou, son of
night, in peace ? Or dost thou meet my wrath ? The
foes of Fingal are mine. Speak, or fear my steel. I
stand not, in vain, the shield of Morven's race."
'• Never mayest thou stand in vain, son of blue-eyed
Clatho ! Fingal begins to be alone. Darkness gathers
on the last of his days. Yet he has two sons who
ought to shine in war. Who ought to be two beams
of light, near the steps of his departure."
"Son Ox Fingal," replied the youth, y- it is not long
since 1 raised the spear. Few are the marks of my
s\TOrd in war. But Fillan's soul is fire ! The chiefs
of Bolga* crowd around the shield of generous Cath-
♦ The southern parts of Ireland went, for bome time, under the
TEilORA. 415
mor. Their gathering is on the hcaih. Shall my steps
approach their host ? I yielded to Oscar alone in the
strife of the race of Cona!''
" Fillan, thou shalt not approach their host ; nor fall
before thy fame is known. My name is heard in song ;
when needful, I advance. From the skirts of night I
shall view them over all their gleaming tribes. Why,
Fillan, didst thou speak of Oscar ? Why awake my
sigh ! I must forget the warrior, till the storm is roiled
away. Sadness ought not to dwell in danger, nor the
tear in the eye of v/ar. Our fathers forgot their fallen
sons, till the noise of arms was past. Then sorrow
returned to the tomb, and the song of bards arose.
The memory of those who fell quickly followed the
departure of war : when the tumult of battle is past,
the soul in silence melts away for the dead.
'' Conar was the brother of Trathal, first of mortal
men. His battles were on every coast. A thousand
streams rolled down the blood of his foes. His fame
filled green Erin, like a pleasant gale. The nations
gathered in Uiiin, 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 ; shovfing their pale
forms from the chinky rocks ; reminding them of the
honor of Bolga. ' Why should Conar reign,' they
said, * the son of resounding Morven V
" 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
name of Boiga, ircm the Fir-bolg or Belgte of Britain,_\vho settled
a colony there " Bolg" signifies a '•' quiver," from which proceeds
"Fir-bolg," i. e., " bowmen:" so called from (heir using bows more
than any of the neighboring natiosis.
416 THE POEMS Of OSSIAN.
often they returnc:], and the sons of Selma fell. The
king stood, among the tombs of his warriors. He darkly-
bent his mournful face. His soul was rolled into itself:
and he had marked the place where he was to fall :
when Trathal came, in his strength, his brother from
cloudy Morven. Nor did he come alone. Colgar was
at his side : Colgar the son of the king and of white-
bosomed Solin-corma.
" As Trenmor, clothed with meteors, descends from
the halls of thunder, pouring the dark storm before him
over the troubled sea : so Colgar descended to battle,
and wasted the echoing field. His father rejoiced over
the hero : but an arrow came ! His tomb was raised
without a tear. The king was to revenge his son.
He lightened forward in battle, til) Bolga yielded at her
streams !
" When peace returned to the land : when his blue
waves bore the king to Morven : then he remembered
his son, and poured the silent tear. Thrice did the
bards, at the cave of Furmono, call the soul of Colgar.
They called him to the hills of his land. He heard
them in his mist. Trathal placed his sword in the
cave, that the spirit of his son might rejoice."
"Colgar, son of Trathal," said Fillan, "thou wert
renowned in youth ! but the king hath not marked my
sword, bright streaming on the field. I go forth jvith
the crowd. I return without my fame. But the foe
approaches, Ossian I I hear'their murmur on the heath.
The sound of their steps is like thunder, in the bosom
of the ground, when the rocking hills shake their groves,
and not a blast pours from the darkened sky !"
Ossian turned sudden on his spear. He raised the
flame of an oak on high. I spread it large on Mora's
wind. Cathmor stopt in his course. Gleaming he
stood, like a rock, on whose sides are the wandering
blasts ; which seize its echoing streams, and clothe
TEBIORA. 417
them with ice. So stood the friend of strangers ! The
winds lift his heavy locIi:s. 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 Hidaila 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 ? Fails his arm in battle, in
the beams of day ? Few are the foes before us ; why
should we clothe us in shades ? The valiant delight to
shine in the battles of their land ! Thy counsel was in
vain, chief of Moma ! The eyes of Morven do not
sleep. They are watchful as eagles on their mossy
rocks. Let each collect beneath his cloud the strength
of his roaring tribe. To-morrow I move, in light, to
meet the foes of Bolga ! Mighty was he that is low, the
race of Borbar-duthul !"
'' Not unmarked," said Foldath, " were my steps be-
fore thy race. In light, I met the foes of Cairbar.
The warrior praised my deeds. But his stone was
♦ Bruno was a place of worship, (Fing. b. 6.) in Craca, which is
gupposed to be one of the isles of Shetland.
418 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN.
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, pursucdst the
thistle's ^eard. 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 shaltfall, 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. Be-
neath 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.
At a distance rose the voice of Fonar, with the deeds
of the days of old. The song fails, at times, in Lubar's
growing roar.
" Crothar," began the bard, " first dwelt at Atha's
mossy stream ! A thousand oaks, from the mountains,
formed his echoing hall. The gathering of the people
♦ By " the stranger of Inis-hana," is meant Sull-malla.— B. iv-
TEI'.IORA. 419
svas iherc, around the feast of the bluc-eycd kino-. But
who, among his chiefs, was hke the stately Crothar ?
Warriors kindled in his presence. The young sigh of
the virgins rose. In Alnecma* was the warrior hon-
ored : the first of the race of Bolga.
" He pursued the chase in Ullin : on the moss-cover-
ed top of Drumardo. From the wood looked the
daugliter of Cathmin, the blue-rolling eye of Con-lama.
Her sigh rose in secret. She bent her head, amidst
hoA' v/andering 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 narrov/ path. The bow fell at once from
her hand. She turned her face away, and half hid it
with her locks. The love of Crothar rose. He brought
the white-bosomed maid to Atha. Bards raised the
song in her presence. Joy dwelt round the daughter
of Cathmin.
" The pride of Turloch rose, a youth w^ho loved the
white-handed Con-lama. He came, with battle, to Al-
necma ; to Atha of the roes. Cormul went forth to
the strife, the brother of car-borne Crothar. He w^ent
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 re-
turned midst the joy of Con-lama.
" Battle on battle comes. Blood is poured on blood.
The tombs of the valiant rise. Eiin's clouds are hung
round with ghosts. The chiefs of the South gathered
round the echoing shield of Crothar. He came, with
death to the paths of the foe. The virgins wept, by
♦ Alnecma, or Alnecmacht, was the ancient name of Conjiai\rl'.t,
Ullin is still the hish name of the province of Ulster.
420 THE rOEMS OF OSSIAK.
the streams of Ullin. They looked the mist of the
hill : no hunter descended from its folds. Silence
darkened in the land. Blasts sighed lonely on grassy-
tombs.
" Descending like the eagle of heavenj with all his
rustling winds, when he forsakes the blast with joy. the
son of Trenmor came ; Conar, arm of death, from
Morven of the groves. He poured his might along
green Erin. Death dimly strode behind his swori.
The sons of Bolga fled from his course, as from a
stream, that, bursting from the stormy desert, rolls the
fields together, with all their echoing woods. Crothar
met him in battle : but Alnccma's warriors fled. The
king of Atha slowly retired, in the grief of his soul. He
afterward shone in the south ; but dim as the sun of
autumn, when he visits, in his robes of mist, Lara of
dark streams. The withered grass is covered with
dew ; the field, though bright, is sad."
'' Why wakes the bard before me," said Cathmor,
" the memory of those who fled ? Has some ghost,
from his dusky cloud, bent forward to thine ear ; to
frighten Cathmor from the field, with the tales of old ?
Dwellers of the skirts of night, your voice is but a blast
to me ; which takes the gray thistle's head, and strews
its beard on streams. Within my bosom is a voice.
Others hear it not. His soul forbids the king of Erin
to shrink back from war."
Abashed, the bard sinks back on night ; retired, 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-.aid "Cairbar. He saw him, without his song, roll-
ed in a blast of night. He rose. His steps were
round the host. He struck, at times, his echoing
TEMOKA. 421
shield. The sound reached Ossian's ear on Mora's
mossy brow.
"Fillan," I said, "the foes advance. I hear the
shield of war. Stand thou in the narrow path. Os-
sian shall mark their course. If over my fall the host
should pour ; then be thy buckler heard. Awake the
king on his heath, lest his fame should fly away." I
strode in all my rattling arms ; wide bounding over a
stream that darkly winded in the field, before the king
of Atha. Green Atha's king with lifted spear, came
forward on my course. Now would we have mixed in
horrid fray, like two contending ghosts, that bending
forward from two clouds, send forth the roaring winds ;
did not Ossian behold, on high, the helmet of Erin's
kings. The eagle's wing spread above it, rustling in
the breeze. A red star looked through the plumes. I
stopt the lifted spear.
" The helmet of kings is before me ! Who art thou,
son of night ? Shall Ossian's spear be renowned, when
thou art lowly laid ?" At once he dropt the gleaming
lance. Growing before me seemed the form. He
stretched his hand in night. He spoke the words of kings.
'• Friend of the spirits of heroes, do I meet thee thus
in shades ? I have wished for thy stately steps in Atha,
in the days of joy. Why should my spear now arise ?
The sun must behold us, Ossian, when we bend, 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 dreadful to the
soul."
" Shall it then be forgot," T 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.
36
422 THE FOEMS OF OSSIAN.
' Here Cathmor and Ossian met ; the warriors met in
peace !' When thou, O stone, shalt fail : when Lubar'a
otream 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 turncst thou so dark away, son of
Borbar-duthul V
" Not forgot, son of Fingal, shall we ascend these
winds. Our deeds are streams of light, before the
eyes of bards. But darkness is rolled on Atha : the
king is low without his song ; still there was a beam
towards Cathmor, from his stormy soul ; like the moon
in a cloud, amidst the dark-red course of thunder."
" Son of Erin," I replied, " my wrath dwells not in
his earth. My hatred flies on eagle wings, from the
foe that is low. He shall hear the song of bards.
Cairbar shall rejoice on his winds."
Cathmor 's swelling soul arose. He took the dagger
from his side, and placed it gleaming in my hand.
He placed it in my hand, with sighs, and silent strode
away. Mine eyes followed his departure. He dimly
gleamed, like the form of a ghost, which meets a trav-
eller by night, on the dark-skirted heath. His words
are dark, like songs of old : with morning strides the
unfinished shade away !
Who comes from Luba's vale ? from the skirts of
the morning mist ? The drops of heaven are on his
head. His steps are in the paths of the sad. It is
Carril of other times. He comes from Tura's silent
cave. I behold it dark in the rock, through the thin
folds of mist. There, perhaps, Cuthullin sits, on the
blast which bends its trees. Pleasant is the song of
the morning from the bard of Erin.
" The waves crowd away," said Carril. " They
crowd away for fear. They hear the sound of thy
TEMORA. 423
coming forth, sun ! Terrible is thy beauty, son of
heaven, when death is descending on thy locks : when
thou roll est thy vapors before thee, over the blasted
host. But pleasant is thy beam to the hunter, sitting
hy the rock in a storm, when thou showest thyself from
the parted cloud, and brightencst his dewy locks : he
looks down on the streamy vale, and beholds the de-
scent of roes ! How long shalt thou rise on war, and
roll, a bloody shield, tlu'ough 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-
loss light. Thou too, perhaps, must fall. Thy dark-
ening hour may seize thee, struggling as thou rollest
through tliy sky. But pleasant is the voice of the bard :
pleasant to Ossian's soul ! It is like the shower of the
morning, when it comes through the rustling vale, on
which the sun looks through mist, just rising from his
rocks. But this is no tlmQ, 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
l^rin. 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 Coth-
mor ! Open his airy hall ! Let thy song be a stream
of joy to Cairbar's darkened ghost !"
BOOK III.
ARGUMENT.
Morning coming on, Fingal, after a speech to his people, devolves
the command on Gaul, the sonof Morni ; it being the custom of
the times, that the king should not engage, till the necessity of
aflairs required his superior valor and conduct. The king and
Ossian retire to the hill of Cormul, which overlooked the field
of battle. The bards sing the war-song. The general conflict
is described. Gaul, the son of Morni, distinguishes himself; kills
Tur-lathon, chief of INIoruth, and other chiefs of lesser name.
On the other hand, Foldath, who commanded the Irish army
(for Cathmor, after the example of Finsal, kept himself from bat-
tle,) fights gallantly ; kills Connal, cliief of Dun-lora, and ad-
vances to engage Gaul himself Gaul, in the mean time, being
wounded in the hand, by a random arrow, is covered by Fillan
the son of Fingal, who performs prodigies of valor. Night comes
on. The horn of Fingal recalls nis army. The bards meet them,
with a congratulatory song, in which the praises of Gaul and
Fillan are particularly celebrated. The chiefs sit down at a
least ; Fingal misses Connal. The episode of Connal and Duth-
caron is introduced ; which throws further light on the ancient
history of Ireland. Carril is despatched to raise the tomb of Con-
nal. The action of this book takes up the second day from the
opening of the poem.
" Who is that at blue-streaming Lubar ? Who, by
the bending hill of roes ? Tall he leans on an oak
torn from high, by nightly winds. Who but Comhal's
son, brightening in the last of his fields ? His gray
hair is on the breeze. He half unsheaths the sword of
.T..uno. His eyes are turned to Moi-lena, to the dark
moving of foes. Dost thou hear the voice of the king?
[t is like the bursting of a stream in the desert, when it
:om.cs, between its echoing rocks, to the blasted field
)f the sun !
" Wide-skirted comes down the foe ! Sons of
voody Selma, arise ! Be ye like the rocks of our land,
m whose brown sides are the rolling of streams. A
TEMORA. 425
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 re-
nown, and darkness dwell on his tomb. Who shall
lead the war, against the host of Alnecma ? It is only
when danger grows, that my sword shall shine. Sucn
was the custom, heretofore, of Trenmor the ruler of
winds ! and thus descended to battle the blue-shielded
Trathal V'
The chiefs bend tow^ards 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 distant
stream he stands: the tear hangs in his eye. He
strikes, at times, the thistle's head, with his inverted
spear. Nor is he unseen of Fingal. Sidelong he 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 de-
fiest the storm ! Lead thou my battle for the race of
low-laid Cormac. No boy's staff is thy spear : no
harmless beam of light thy sword. Son of Morni
of steeds, behold the foe ! Destroy ! Fillan, observe
the chief! He is not calm in strife: nor burns he,
heedless in battle. My son, observe the chief ! He
is strong as Lubar's stream, but never foams and
36*
4<«,6 THE rOEMS OF OSSIAN.
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 be-
noath the sound. It is my latter field. Clothe it ovei
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 terribls 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 !
" 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 sunbeam marks the hill. The dusky waves of the
blast fly over the fields of grass. Why art thou silent,
O Selma? The king returns with all his fame. Did
not the battle roar ? yet peaceful is his brow ! It
roared, and Fingal overcame. Be like thy father, O
Fillan !"
They move beneath the song. High wave their
arms, as rushy fields beneath autumnal winds. On
TEMORA. 427
Mora stands the king in arms. Mist flies round his
buckler abroad ; as aloft it hung on a bough, on Cor-
mui's mossy rock. In silence 1 stood by Fingal, and
turned my eyes on Cromla's wood : lest I should be-
hold the host, and rush amid my swelling soul. My
foot is forward on the heath. I glittered, tall in steel :
like the falling stream of Tromo, which nightly winds
bind over with ice. The boy sees it on high gleaming
to the early beam : towards it he turn.s 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 Fingal
on Mora, his generous pride arose. " Shall the chief
of Atha fight, and no king in the field ? Foldath, lead
my people forth, thou art a beam of fire."
Forth issues Foldath of Moma, like a cloud, the robe
of ghosts. He drew his sword, a flame from his side.
He bade the battle move. The tribes, like ridgy waves,
dark pour their strength around. Haughty is liis stride
before them. His red eye rolls in wrath. He calls
Cormul, chief of Dun-ratho ; and his words were
heard.
'• Cormul, thou beholdest that path. It winds green
behind the foe. Place thy people there ; lest Selma
should escape from my sword. Bards of green- valleyed
Erin, let no voice of yours arise. The sons of Morven
must fall without song. They are the foes of Cairbar.
Hereafter shall the traveller meet their dark, thick
mist, on Lena, where it wanders with their ghosts,
beside the reedy lake. Never shall they rise, without
song, to the dwelling of winds."
dormul 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
428 THE rOEMS OF OSSIAN.
the steps of Cormul ! Let thine arm be strong ! When
he is low, son of Fingal, remember Gaul in war. Here
I fall forward into battle, amid the ridge of shields !"
The sign of death ascends : the dreadful sound of
Morni's shield. Gaul pours his voice between. Fin-
gal rises on Mora. He saw them from wing to wing,
bending at once in strife. Gleaming on his own dark
hill, stood Cathmor, of streamy Atha. The kings were
like two spirits of heaven, standing each on his gloomy
cloud : when they pour abroad the winds, and lift the
roaring seas. The blue tumbling of waves is before
them, marked with the paths of whales. They them-
selves 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 l;i.:j
branches round him. Hishigh-bosomed spouse streteliLo
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-Iora. When the skies were rolled together :
then thy feast was spread. The stranger heard the
winds without ; and rejoiced at thy burning oak. Why,
son of Duth-caron, art thou laid in blood ? the blasted
tree bends above thee. Thy shield lies broken near.
Thy blood mixes with the stream, thou breaker of the
shields !
TEMORA. 429
Ossian took the spear, in his wrath. But Gaul rush-
ed forward on Foldath. The feeble pass by his side:
his rage is turned on Moma's chief. Now they had
raised their death ful spears : unseen an arrow came.
It pierced the hand of Gaul. His steel fell sounding
to earth. Young Fillan came, with Cormul's shield !
He stretched it large before the chief. Foldath sent
his shouts abroad, and kindled all the field : as a blast
that lifts the wide-winged flame over Lumen's echoing
groves.
" Son of blue-eyed Clatho," said Gaul, " O Fillan !
thou art a beam from heaven ; that, coming on the
troubled deep, binds up the tempest's wing. Cormul
is fallen before thee. Early art thou in the fame of
thy fathers. Rush not too far, my hero. I cannot lift
the spear to aid. I stand harmless in battle : but my
voice shall be poured abroad. The sons of Selma shall
hear, and remember my former deeds."
His terrible voice rose on the wind. The host bends
forward in fight. Often had they heard him at >Stru-
mon, when he called them to the chase of the hinds.
He stands tall amid the war, as an oak in the skirts of
a storm, which now is clothed on high, in mist : then
shows its broad waving head. The musing hunter lifts
his eye, from his own rushy field !
My soul pursues thee, O Fillan ! through the path
of thy fame. Thou rollest the foe before thee. Now
Foldath, perhaps, may fly : but night comes down with
its clouds. Cathmor's horn is heard on high. The
sons of Selma hear the voice of Fingal, from Mora's
gathered mist. The bards pour their song, like dew,
on the returning war.
" Who comes from Strumon," they said, " amid her
wandering locks 1 She is mournful in her steps, and
lifts her blue eyes towards Erin. Why art thou sadj
Evir-choma ? Who is like thy chief in renown ? He
430 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN.
descended dreadful to battle ; lie returns, like a light
from a cloud. He raised the sword in wrath : they
shrunk before blue-shielded Gaul !
" Joy, like the rustling gale, comes on the soul of the
king. He remembers the battles of old ; the days
wherein his fathers fought. The days of old returr.
on Fingal's mind, as he behglds 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 !
" As the rolling of thunder on hills, when Lara's
riel(>3 are still and dark, such are the steps of Selma,
pleasant and dreadful to tlie ear. They return with
their sound, like eagles to their dark-browed rock, after
the prey is torn on the field, the dun sons of the
bounding hind. Your fathers rejoice from their clouds,
sons of streamy Selma !"
Such was the nightly voice of bards, on Mora of the
hinds. A flame rose, from a hundred oaks, which
winds had torn from Cormul's steep. The feast is
spread in the midst ; around sat the gleaming chiefs.
Fingal is there in his strength. The eagle wing of his
helmet sounds. The rustling blasts of the west unequal
rush through night. Long looks the king in silence
round ; at length his words are heard.
" My soul feels a want in our joy. I behold a breach
among my friends. The head of one tree is low. The
squally wind pours in on Selma. Where is the chief
of Dun-lora ? Ought Connal to be forgot at the feast ^
When did he forget the stranger, in the midst of his
echoing hall ? Ye are silent in my presence ! Connal
is then no more ! Joy meet thee, O warrior ! like a
stream of light. Swift be thy course to thy fathers,
along the roaring winds. Ossian, thy soul is fire ;
kindle the memory of the king. Awake the battles of
Connal, when first he shone in war. The locks of
TEMORA. 431
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-
vallcyed Erin. Often did our sails arise, over the
bine tumbling waves ; when we came in other days,
to aid the race of Cona. The strife roared once in
Alnecma, at the foam-covered streams of Duth-ula.
With Cormac descended to battle Duth-caron, from
cloudy Selnia. Nor descended Duth-caron alone ; his
son was by his side, the long-haired youth of Connal,
lifting the first of his spears. Thou didst command
them, O Fingal ! to aid the king of Erin.
" Like the bursting strength of ocean, the sons of
Bolga rushed to war. Colc-ulla was before them, the
chief of blue stream Atha. The battle was mixed on
the plain. Cormac shone in his own strife, bright as
the forms of his fathers. But, far before the rest, Duth-
caron hewed down the foe. Nor slept the arm of
Connal by his father's side. Colc-ulla prevailed on the
plain : like scattered mist fled the people of Cormac.
" Then rose the sword of Duth-caron, and the steel
of broad-shielded Connal. They shaded their flying
friends, like two rocks with their heads of pine. Night
came down on Duth-ula ; silent strode the chiefs over
the field. A mountain-stream roared across the path,
nor could Duth-caron bound over its course. ' Why
stands my father 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-caron
dies !
432 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN.
" 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 vapor of
reedy Lego. At length the steps of Colgan camo, the
bard of high Temora. Duth-caron received his fame,
and brightened, as he rose on the wind."
" Pleasant to the ear," said Fingal, " is the praise
of the kings of men ; when their bows are strong in
battle ; when they soften at the sight of the sad. Thus
let my name be renowned, when the bards shall lighten
my rising soul. Carril, son of Kinfena ! take the bards,
and raise a tomb. To-night let Connal dwell within
his narrow house. Let not the soul of the valiant
wander on the winds. Faint glimmers the moon at
Moi-lena, through the broad-headed groves of the hill !
Raise stones, beneath its beam, to all the fallen in war.
Though no chiefs were they, yet their hands were
strong in fight. They were my rock in danger : the
mountain from which I spread my eagle wings. Thence
am I renowned. Carril, forget not the low !"
Loud, at once, from the hundred bards, rose the song
of the tomb. Carril strode before them ; they are ihe
murmur of streams behind his steps. Silence dwells
in the vales of Moi-lena, where each, with its own dark
rill, is winding between the hills. I heard the voice
of the bards, lessening, as they moved along. I leaned
forward from my shield, and felt the kindling of my
soul. Half formed, the words of my song burst forth
upon the wind. So hears a tree, on the vale, the voice
of spring around. It pours its green leaves to the sun.
It shakes its lonely head. The hum of the mountain
TEMORA. 433
bee is near it ; the hunter sees it with joy, from the
blasted heath.
Young Fillan at a distance stood. His helmet lay
glittering on the ground. His dark hair is loose to the
blast. A beam of light is Clatho's son ! He heard
the words of the king with joy. He leaned forward
on his spear.
" My son," said car-borne Fingal, " I saw thy deeds,
and my soul was glad." " The fame of our fathers,"
I said, " bursts from its gathering cloud. Thou art
brave, son of Clatho ! but headlong in the strife. So
did not Fingal advance, though he never feared a foe.
Let thy people be a ridge behind. They are thy
strength in the field. Then shalt thou be long renown-
ed, and behold the tombs of the old. The memory of
the past returns, my deeds in other years : when first
I descended from ocean on the green-valleyed isle."
We bend towards the voice of the king. The moon
looks abroad from her cloud. The gray-skirted mist
is near : the dwelling of the ghosts !
37
BOOK IV.
ARGUMENT.
The second night continues. Finffal relates, at the least, his own
first expedition into Ireland, anu his marriage with Ros-cranna,
the daughter o{ Cormac, king of that island. The Irish chiefs
convene in the presence of Cathmor. The situation of the king
described. The story of Sul-malla, the daughter of Conmor, kins
of Inis-huna, who, in the disguise of a young warrior, hath fol-
lowed Cathmor to the war. The suhen behavior of Foldath, v.ho
had commanded m the battle of the preceding day, renews the
difference between him and Malthos : but Cathmor, interposing,
ends it. The chiefs feast, and hear the son^ of Fonar the bard.
Cathmor returns to rest, at a distance iVom the army. The ghost
of his brother Cairbar appears to him in a dream ; and obscurely
Ibretells the issue of the war. The soliloquy of the king. lie
discovers Sul-malla. Morning comes. Her soliloquy close.? the
book.
" Beneath an oak," said the king, " I sat on Seliiia's
streamy rock, when Connal rose, from the sea, with
the broken spear of Duth-caron. Far distant stood the
youth. He turned away his eyes. He remembered
the steps of his father, on his own green hill. I dark-
ened in my place. Dusky thoughts flew over my soul.
The kings of Eriti rose before mo. I half un.shetUhed
the sword. Slowly approached the chiefs. They
lifted up their silent eyes. Like a ridge of clouds,
they wait for the bursting forlh 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
t hung, and marked the dark-blue sea. But when
night came down, I struck, at times, the warning boss :
I struck, and looked on high, for fiery-haired Ul-orin.*
* Ul-erin, " the guide to Ireland," a star known by that name \a
the days of Finiral
TEMORA. 435
Nor absent was the star of heaven. It travelled red
between the clouds. 1 pursued the lovely beam, on
the faint-gleaming deep. With morning, Erin rose in
mist. We came into the bay of Moi-lena, where its
blue waters tumbled, in the bosom of echoing woods.
Here Cormac, in his secret halls, avoids the strength
of Colc-ulla. Nor he alone, avoids the foe. The blue
eye of Ros-cranna is there : Ros-cranna, white-handed
ir»aid, the daughter of the king !
" Gray, on his pointless spear, came forth the aged
steps of Cormac. He smiled from his waving locks ;
but grief was in his soul. He saw us few before him,
and his sigh arose. 'I see the arms of Trenmor,' he
said ; ' and these are the steps of the king ! Fingal !
thou art a beam of light to Cormac's darkened soul !
Early is thy fame, my son : but strong are the foes
of Erin. They are like the roar of streams in the
land, son of car-borne Comhal !' ' Yet they may be
rolled away,' I said, in my rising soul. ' We are not
of the race of the feeble, king of blue-shielded hosts !
Why sliould fear come amongst us, like a ghost of
night ? The soul of the valiant grows when foes in-
crease in the field. Roll no darkness, king of Erin,
on the young in war !'
" The bursting tears of the king came down. He
•leized my hand in silence. ' Race of the daring
Trenmor !' at length he said, ' I roll no cloud before
iheo. Thou burnest in the fire of thy fathers. I be-
iiold thy fame. It marks thy course in battle, like a
stream of light. But wait the coming of Cairbar ; my
SO" must join thy sword. He calls the sons of Erin
from all theii- 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
436 THE POF.MS OF OSSTAN.
her shadowy grove, Ros-cranna raises the song. Her
white hands move on the harp. I beheld her blue-
roHing eyes. She was like a sph'it 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 nne 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 is low. One song con-
tains his fame. His name is one dark field. He is
forgot ; but where his tomb sends forth the tufted
grass."
Such are the words of Fingal, on Mora of the roes.
Three bards, from the rock of Cormul, pour down the
pleasing song. Sleep descends in the sound, on the
broad-skirted host. Carril returned with the bards,
from the tomb of Dunlora's chief. The voice of 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,
vvhcn they brighten their sides with its light along the
heaving sea ; so gathers Erin around the gleaming
form of Cathmor. He, tall in the midst, careless lifts,
at times, his spear: as swells or falls the sound of
Fonar's distant harp. Near him leaned, against a rock,
Sul-malla of blue eyes, the white-bosomed daughter of
Conmor, kinsj of Inis-huna. To his aid came blue-
TEWOKA. 437
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 day arose, when Fithil came, from Erin
of the streams. He told of the lifting up of the shield
in Solma : he told of the danger of Cairbar. Cathmor
raised the sail at Cluba ; but the winds were in other
lands. Three days he remained on the coast, and
.arned his eyes on Conmor's halls. He remembered
the daughter of strangers, and his sigh arose. Now
when the winds aivaked the wave : from the hill came
a youth in arms ; to lift the sword with Cathmor, in
his echoing fields. It was the white-armed Sul-malla.
Secret she dwelt beneath her helmet. Her steps were
in the path of the king : on him her blue eyes rolled
with joy, when he lay by his rolling streams : But Cath-
mor thought that on Lumon she still pursued the roes.
He thought, that fair on a rock, she stretched her
white hand to the wind ; to feel its course from Erin,
the green dwelling of her love. He had promised to
return, with his white-bosomed sails. The maid is
near thee, O Cathmor : leaning on her rock. -
The tall forms of the chiefs stand around ; all but
dark-browed Foldath. He leaned against a distant
tree, rolled into his haughty soul. His bushy hair
whistles in the wind. At times, bursts the hum of
a song. He struck the tree at length, in wrath ; and
rushed before the king ! Calm and stately, to the beam
of the oak, arose the form of young Hidalla. His hair
falls round his blushing cheek, in the wreaths of wav-
ing light. Soft was his voice in Clonra, in the valley
of his fathers. Soft was his voice when he touched
the harp, in the hall near his roaring stream !
" King of Erin," said Hidalla, " now is the time to
feast. Bid the voice of bards arise. Bid them roll the
night away. The soul returns, from song, more ter-
37*
438 THE POEMS OF O.SSIAN.
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. " Did_ not I fail in the field ? Shalt I then hear
the song 1 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 Clom-a's vale touch thou the harp. Let Dura an-
swer to the voice of Hidalla. Let some maid look,
from the wood, on thy long yellow locks. Fly from
Lubar's echoing plain. This is the field of heroes !"
" King of Erin," Malthos said, " it is thine to lead
in war. Thou art a fire to our eyes, on the dark-
brown field. Like a blast thou hast passed over hosts.
Thou hast laid them low in blood. But who has heard
thy words returning from the field ? The wrathful de-
light in death ; their remembrance rests on the wounds
of their spear. Strife is folded in their thoughts : their
words are ever heard. Thy course, chief of Moma,
was like a troubled stream. The dead were rolled on
thy path : but others also lift the spear. We were not
feeble behind thee : but the foe was strong."
Cathmor beheld the rising rage and bending forward
of either chief: for, half unsheathed, they held their
swords, and rolled their silent eyes. Now would they
have mixed in horrid fray, had not the wrath of Cath-
mor burned. He drew his sword : it gleamed through
night, to the high-flaming oak ! " Sons of pride," said
the king, " allay your swelling souls. Retire in night.
Why should my rage arise ? Should I contend with
both in arms ! It is no time for strife ! Retire, ye clouds,
at my feast. Awake my soul no more."
TE^IORA. 439
.They >suiik from the king on either side; hke two
columns of morning mist, when the sun rises, between
them, on his glittering rocks. Dark is their rolling on
either side : each towards its reedy pool !
Silent sat the chiefs at the feast. They look, at times, •
on Atha's king, where he strode, on his rock, amid his
settling soul. The host lie along the field. Sleep de-
scends on Moi-lena. The voice of Fonar ascends
alone, beneath his distant tree. It ascends in the praise
of Cathmor, son of Larthon of Lumon. But Cathmor
did not hear his praise. He lay at the roar of a
stream. The rustling breeze of night flew over his
whistling locks.
His brother came to his dreams, half seen from his
low-hung cloud. Joy rose darkly in his face. He had
heard the sonsr of Carril.* A blast sustained his dark-
o
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 hall, like the gliding of a terrible light, which
darts across the desert, in a stormy night. No bard
shall be wanting at thy tomb when thou art lowly laid.
The sons of song love the voiiant. Ca,thmor, 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 ssvells
tiie 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
♦ The funeral elegy at the tomb of Cairbar.
440 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN.
starts from rest. He takes his deathful spear. He
lifts his eyes around. He sees but dark-skirted night.
" It was the voice of the king," he said. " But now
his form is gone. Unmarked is your path in the air,
ye children of the night. Often, like a reflected beam,
are ye seen in the desert wild : but ye retire in your
blasts, before our steps approach. Go, then, ye feeble
race ! Knowledge with you there is none ! Your joys
are weak, and like the dreams of our rest, or the light-
winged thought, that flies across the soul. Shall Cath-
mor soon be low ? Darkly laid in his narrow house ?
Where no morning comes, with her half-opened eyes?
Away, thou shade ! to fight is mine ! All further thought
away ! I rush forth on eagles' wings, to seize my beam
of 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
vapor of the fenny field. Its course is never on hills,
nor mossy vales of wind. So shall not Cathmor de-
part. 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 hia
rising soul. Valor, like a pleasant flame, is gleaming
within his breast. Stately is his stride on the heath !
The beam of east is poured around. He saw his gray
host on the field, wide spreading their ridges in light.
He rejoiced, like a spirit of heaven, whose steps came
forth on the seas, when he beholds them peaceful round,
and all the winds are laid. But soon he awakes the
waves, and rolls them large to some echoing shore.
On the rushy bank of a stream slept the daughter of
Inis-huna. The helmet had fallen from her head.
TEMORA. 441
Her dreams were in the lands of her fathers. There
morning is on the field. Gray streams leap down from
the rocks. The breezes, in shadowy waves, fly over
the rushy fields. There is the sound that prepares for
the chase. There the moving of warriors from the
hall. But tall above the rest is seen the hero of streamy
Atha. He bends his eye of love on Sul-malla, from his
stately steps. She turns, with pride, her face away,
and careless bends the bow.
Such were the dreams of the maid when Cathmor of
Atha came. He saw her fair face before him, in the
midst of her wandering locks. He knew the maid of
Lumon. What should Cathmor do ? His sighs arise.
His tears come down. But straight he turns away.
" This is no time, king of Atha, to awake thy secret
soul. The battle is rolled before thee like a troubled
stream."
He struck that warning boss,* 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-hunal" 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 Cath-
mor, at times, to Sul-malla's ear. Her soul is darkly
sad. She pours her words on wind.
" The dreams of Inis-huna departed. They are dis-
* In order to understand this passage, it is necessary to look to
the description of Cathmor's shield in th^ 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.
442 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN.
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 warriors 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 say, call away the souls of
their race, while they behold them lonely in the midst
of wo. Call me, my father, away ! When Cathmor is
low on earth, then shall Sul-malla be . lonely in the
midst of wo!"
BOOK V.
ARGUMENT.
The poet, alter a short address to the harp of Cona, describes the
arrangement of both armies on either side of the river Lubar.
Fingal gives the comniand 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 as^^ict him with his counsel. The army
of the Fir-bolg is commanded by Foldath. The general onset is
described. The great actions of Fillan. He kills Kothmar and
Culmin. But when Fillan conquers in one wing, Foldath presses
hard on the other. He wounds Dermid, the son of Duthno, and
puts the whole wing to llight. Dermid dehberates with himsell',
and, at last, resolves to pul a stop to the progress of Foldath, by
engaging him in single combat. "When the two chieis v^-ere ap-
proaching towards one another, Fillan came suddenly to the re-
lief of L'eimid ; engaged Foldath, and killed him. The behavior
of Malthos tov/ards the fallen Foldath. Fillan puts the whole
army of the Fir-bolg to flight. The book closes with an address
to Clatho, the mother of that hero
Thou dweller between the shields that hang, on high,
in Ossian's hall ! Descend from thy place, O harp, and
let me hear thy voice ! Son of Alpin, strike the string.
Thou must awake the soul of the bard. The murmur
of Lora's stream has rolled the tale away. I stand in
the cloud of years. Few are its openings towards the
past ; and when the vision comes, it is but dim and
dark. I hear thee, harp of Selma ! my soul returns,
like a breeze, which the sun brings back to the vale,
where dwelt the lazy mist.
Lubar is bright before me in the windings of its
vale. On either side, on their hills, arise the tall forms
of the kings. Their people are poured around them,
bending forward to their words: as if their fathers
spoke, descending from the winds. But they them-
selves are like two rocks in the midst ; each with its
dark head of pines, when they are seen in the desert,
444 THE POEMS OF OSSI^N.
above low-sailing inist. 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 tum-
bling of a stream is near the king. He lifts, at times,
his gleaming spear. It is a flame to his people, in the
midst of war. Near him stands the daughter of Con-
mor, leaning on a rock. She did not rejoice at the
strife. Her soul delighted not in blood. A valley
spreads green behind the hill, with its three blue
streams. The sun is there in silence. The dun moun-
tain roes come down. On these are turned the eyes of
Sul-malla in her thoughtful mood.
Fingal beholds Cathmor, on high, the son of Borbar-
duthul ! he beholds the deep rolling of Erin, on the
darkened plain. He strikes that warning boss, which
bids the people to obey, when he sends his chief before
them, to the field of renown. Wide rise their spears
to the sun. Their echoing shields reply around. Fear,
like a vapor, winds not among the liost : for he, the
king, is near, the strength of streamy Selma. Glad-
ness brightens the hero. We hear his words with joy.
" Like the coming forth of v/inds, is the soujid of
Selma's sons ! They are mountain waters, determined
in their course. Hence is Fingal renowned. Hence
is his name in other lands. He was not a lonely beam
in danger : for your steps were always near ! But
never was Fingal a dreadful form, in your presence,
darkened into wrath. My voice was no thunder to
your ears. Mine eyes sent forth no death. When the
haughty appeared, I beheld them not. They were for-
got at my feasts. Like mist they melted away. A
young beam is before you ! Few are his paths to war !
They are few, but he is valiant. Defend my dark-
TEMORA. iir)
haired son. Bring Fillan back with joy. Herealtor
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 micrhty is
the chief ! Behind him dark and slow I moved . Straight
came forward the strength of Gaul. His shield hung
loose on its thong. He spoke, in haste, to Ossian.
" Bind, son of Fingal, this shield ! Bind it high to the
side of Gaul. The foe may behold it, and think I lift
the spear. If I should fall, let my tomb be hid in the
field ; for fall I must without fame. i\Iine arm cannot
lift the steel. Let not Evir-choma hear it, to blush be-
tween her locks. Fillan, the mighty behold us ! Let
us not forget the strife. Why should they come from
their hills, to aid our flying field !"
He strode onward, with the sound of his shield. My
voice pursued him as he went. '' Can the son of Morni
fall, without his fame in Erin '? But the deeds of the
mighty are forgot by themselves. They rush earless
over the fields of renown. Their words are never
heard !" I rejoiced over the steps of the chief. I
strode to the rock of the king, where he sat, in his
wandering locks, amid the mountain wind '
In two dark ridges bend the host towards each other-
at Lubar. Here Foldath rises a pillar of darkness ;
there brightens the youth of Fillan. Each, with his
spear in the stream, sent forth the voice of war. Gaul
struck the shield of Selma. At once they plunge in
38
446 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN.
battle ! Steel pours its gleam on steel : like th(3 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 !
Rotlimar, the shield of warriors, stood between two
chinky rocks. Two oaks, which winds had bent from
high, spread their branches on either side. He rolls
his darkening eyes on Fillan, and, silent, shades his
friends. Fingal saw the approaching fight. The
hero's soul arose. But as the stone of Loda* falls,
shook, at once, from rocking Drumanard, when spirits
heave the earth in their wrath ; so fell blue-shielded
Rothmar.
Near are the steps of Culmin ; the youth came,
bursting into tears. Wrathful he cut the wind, ere yet
he mixed his strokes with Fillan. He had first bent
the bow with Rothmar, at the rock of his own blue
streams. There they had marked the place of the roe,
as the sunbeam flew over the fern. Why, son of Cul-
allin ! why, Culmin, dost thou rush on that beam of
light ?■!■ It is a fire that consumes. Son of Cul-allir,
retire. Your fathers were not equal in the glittering
strife of the field. The mother of Culmin remains in
the hall. She looks forth on blue-rolling Strutha. A
whirlwind rises, on the stream, dark-eddying round the
ghost of her son. His dogsj are howling in their
place. His shield is bloody in the hall. " Art thou
fallen, my fair-haired son, in Erin's dismal war V
* By " the stone of Loda" is meant a place of worship among
the Scandinavians.
t The poet metaphorically calls Fillan a beam of light.
j Dogs were thought to be sensible of the death of their mastei,
let it happen at ever so great a distance. It was also the opinion of
the times, that the arms, which warriors left at home, became
bloody when they themselves fell in battle.
TEMORA. 447
As a roe, pierced in secret, lies panting, by her wont-
ed streams ; the hunter surveys her feet of wind ! He
remembers her stately bounding before. So lay the
son of Cul-allin beneath the eye of Fillan. His hair
is rolled in a little stream. His blood wanders on his
shield. Still his hand holds the sword, that failed him
in the midst of danger. " Thou art fallen," said Fil-
lan, " ere yet thy fame was heard. Thy father sent
thee to war. He expects to hear of thy deeds. He
is gray, perhaps, at his streams. His eyes are towards
Moi-lena. But thou shalt not return with the spoil of
the fallen foe !"
Fillan pours the flight of Erin before him, over the
resounding heath. But, man on man, fell Morven 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 Selma 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 fled.
My fime begins ! Go, Malthos, go bid Cathmor guard
the dark rolling of ocean ; that FingrJ may not escape
from my sword. He must lie on earth. Beside some
{on 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,
HI doubtful mood, he plunged his sword in war.
In Clone'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 ;
448 THE rOEMS OF OSSIAN.
and no shield is mine. Shall he then prevail ? It is
then after Dermid is low ! 1 will call thee forth, O
Foldath, and meet thee yet in fight."
He took his spear, with dreadful joy. The son of
Moi'ni came. " Stay, son of Duthno, stay thy speed.
Thy steps are marked with blood. No bossy shield is
thine. Why shouldst thou fall unarmed '?" — " Son of
Morni, give thou thy shield. It has often rolled back
the war. I shall stop the chief in his course. Son of
JMorni, behold that stone ! It lifts its gray head througli
grass. There dwells a chief of the race of Dermid.
Place me there in night."
He slowly rose against the hill. He saw the troubled
field : the gleaming ridges of battle, disjointed and
broken around. As distant fires, on heath by night,
now seem as lost in smoke : now rearing their red
streams on the hill, as blow or cease the winds ; so met
the intermitting war the eye of broad-shielded Dermid.
Through the host are the strides of Foldath, like some
dark ship on wintry waves, when she issues from be-
tween two isles to sport on resounding ocean !
Dermid with rage beholds his course. He strives
to rush along. But he fails amid his steps ; and the
big tear comes down. He sounds his father's horn.
He thrice strikes his bossy shield. He calls thrice the
name of Foldath, from his roaring tribes. Foldath,
with joy, beholds the chief. He lifts aloft his bloody
spear. As a rock is marked with streams, that fell
troubled down its side in a storm ; so streaked with
wandering blood, is the dark chief of Moma ! The
host on either side withdraw from the contending kings.
They raise, at once, their gleaming points. Rushing
comes Fillan of Selma. Three paces back Foldath with-
draws, dazzled with that beam of light, which came, as
issuing from a cloud, to save the wounded chief. Grow-
ing in his pride he stands. He calls forth all his steel.
TEMORA. 449
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. Cath-
mor 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 dread-
ful king. He beholds him, on Mora, rising in his arms.
Foldath falls on his shield. The spear of Fillan
pierced the king. Nor looks the youth on the fallen,
but onward rolls the war. The hundred voices of death
arise. " Stay, son of Fingal, stay thy speed. Be-
holdest thou not that gleaming form, a dreaful sign of
death ? Awaken not the king of Erin. Return, son
of blue-eyed Clatho."
Malthos beholds Foldath low. He darkly stands
above the chief. Hatred is rolled from his soul. He
seems a rock in a desert, on wliose dark side are the
trickling of waters ; when the slow-sailing mist has
left it, and all its trees are blasted with winds. He
spoke to the dying hero about the narrow house.
" Whether shall thy gray stones rise in UUin, or in
Moma's woody land ; where the sun looks, in secret,
on the blue streams of Dalrutho ? There are the steps
of thy daughter, blue-eyed Dardu-lena !"
" Rememberest thou her," said Foldath, " because
no son is mine ; no youth to roll the battle before him,
in revenge of me ? Malthos, I am revenged. I was
not peaceful in the field. Raise the tombs of those I
have slain, around my narrow house. Often shall 1
forsake the blast, to rejoice above their graves ; when
I behold them spread around, with their long-whistling
grass."
♦ Fingal and Cathraor-
38*
450 ■ THE POEMS OF OSSIAN.
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. Tlie 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 ap-
peared, 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
j'^et 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
his 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, bhie-eyed
Clatho, leave thy hall !"
BOOK VI.
ARGUMENT.
Tlus book opens with a speech of Fingal, who sr-
ven's warriors stood aghast. Still I bent over the
stream, amidst my whistling locks.
Then rose the voice of Fingal, and the sound of the
flying foe. I saw the king, at times, in lightning,
darkly striding in his might. I struck my echoing
shield, and hung forward on the st^ps of Alnecma ; the
foe is rolled before me, like a wreath of smoke.
The sun looked forth from his cloud. The hundred
streams of Moi-lena shone. Slow rose the blue columns
of mist, against the glittering hill. Where are the
mighty kings ? Nor by that stream, nor wood, are they !
I hear the clang of arms ! Their strife is in the bosom
of that mist. Such is the contending of spirits in a
nightly cloud, when they strive for the wintry wings
of winds, and the rolling of the foam-covered waves.
I rushed along. The gray mist rose. Tall, 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-duthal ? Or still does
he lift the spear 1 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, ut times. No fire
TEMORA. 475
am I to low-laid foes ; I rejoice not over the fall of the
brave. To close the wound is mine : I have known
the herbs of the hills. I seized their fair heads, on
high, as they waved b}^ 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, wdth its own loud rill. There have I heard the
tread of strangers, when they passed to my hall of
shells. Joy rose, like a flame, on my soul ; I blest
the echoing rock. Here be my dwelling, in darkness;
in my grassy vale. From this I shall mount the breeze,
that pursues my thistle's beard ; or look down on blue-
winding Atha, from its wandering mist.''
" Why speaks the king of the tomb ? Ossian, the
warrior has failed ! Joy meet thy soul, like a stream,
Calhmor friend of strangers ! My son, I hear the call
of years; they take my spear as they pass along.
Wliv does not Fingal, they seem to say, rest within
his hall ? Dost thou always delight in blood ? In the
tears of the sad ? No ; ye dark-rolling years, Fingal
delights not in blood. Tears are wintry streams that
waste away my soul. But when I lie down to rest,
then comes the mighty voice of war. It awakes me in
my hall and calls forth all my steel. It shall call it
forth no more ; Ossian, take thou thy father's spear.
Lift it, in battle, when the proud arise.
" iMy fathers, Ossian, trace my steps ; my deeds are
pleasant to their eyes. Wherever I come forth to bat-
tle, 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 })roud in arms, they are darkened
476 THE rOEMS OF OSSIAN.
moons in heaven, which send the fire of night red
wandering over their face.
" Father of heroes, Trenmor, dweller of eddying
winds, I give thy spear to Ossian : let thine eye rejoice.
Thee have I seen, at times, bright from between thy
clouds ; so appear to my son, when he is to lift the
spear : then shall he remember thy mighty deeds, though
thou art now but a blast."
He gave the spear to my hand, and raised at once a
stone on high, to speak to future times, with its gray
head of moss. Beneath he placed a sword in earth,
and one bright boss from his shield. Dark in thought
awhile he bends : his words at length came forth.
" When thou, O stone, shalt moulder down, and lose
thee in the moss of years, then shall the traveller come,
and whistling pass away. Thou knowest not, feeble
man, that fame once shone on Moi-lena. Here Fingal
resigned his spear, after the last of his fields. P;;; s
away, thou empty shade ! in thy voice there is no j o
nown. Thou dwellest by some peaceful stream ; yet
a few years, and thou art gone. No one remembers
thee, thou dweller of thick mist ! But Fingal shall be
clothed with fame, a beam of light to other times ; for
he went forth, with echoing steel, to save the weak in
arms."
Brightening, in his fame, the king strode to Lubar's
sounding oak, where it bent, from its rock, over the
bright tumbling stream. Beneath it is a narrow plain,
and the sound of the fount of the rock. Here the
standard of Morven poured its wreaths on the wind, to
mark the way of Ferad-artho from his secret vale.
Bright, from his parted west, the son of heaven looked
abroad. The hero saw his people, and heard their
shouts of joy. In broken ridges round, they glittered
to the beam. The king rejoiced, as a hunter in his
own green vale, wheu; after the storm is rolled away,
y
i#7
/ .W^,
V
^ <-^ -
\
TEMORA. 477
he sees the gleaming sides of the rocks. The green
thorn shakes its head in their face j from their top look
forward the roes.
Gray, at his mossy cave, is bent the aged form of
Cionmal. The eyes of the bard nad failed. He lean-
ed forward on his staff. Bright in her locks, before
him, Sul-malla listened to the tale ; the tale of the kings
of Atha, in the days of old. The noise of battle had
ceased in his 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 ?" said the maid. " The strife
of arms is past. Soon shall he come to thy cave, over
thy winding streams. The sun looks from the rocks
of the west. The mists of the lake arise. Gray they
spread on that hill, the rushy dwelling of roes. From
the mist shall my king appear ! Behold, he comes in
his arms. Come to the cave of Cionmal, O my best
beloved !"
It was the spirit of Cathmor, stalking, large, a gleam-
ing 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 mist. Gradual
vanish his limbs of smoke, and mix with the mountain
wind. Then she knew that he fell ! " King of Erin,
art thou low !" Let Ossian forget her grief; it wastes
the soul of age.
Evening came down on Moi-lena. Gray rolled the
streams of the land. Loud came forth the voice of
Fingal : the beam of oaks arose. The people gathered
478 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN.
round with gladness, with gladness blended with shades.
They sidelong looked to the king, and beheld his un.
finished joy. Pleasant from the way of the desert, the
voice of music came. It seemed, at first, the noise of
a stream, far distant on its rocks. Slow it rolled along
the hill, like the ruffled wing of a breeze, when it takes
the tufted beard of the rocks, in the still season of night.
It was the voice of Condon, mixed with Carril's trem-
bling harp. They came, with blue-eyed Ferad-artho,
to Mora of the streams.
Sudden bursts the song from our bards, on Lena :
the host struck their shields midst the sound. Gladness
rose brightening on the king, like the beam of a cloudy
day, when it rises on the green hill, before the roar of
winds. He struck the bossy shield of kings ; at once
they cease around. The people lean forward, from
*heir spears, towards the voice of their land.
"Sons of Morven, spread the feast; send the night
away in song. Ye have shone around me, and the
dark storm is past. My people are the windy rocks,
from which I spread my eagle wings, when I rush forth
to renown, and seize it on its field. Ossian, thou hast
the spear of Fin gal ; it is not the staff of a boy with
which he strews the thistles round, young wanderer of
the field. No : it is the lance of the mighty, with
which thoy stretched forth their hands to death. Look
to thy fathers, my son ; they are awful beams. With
morning lead Ferad-artho forth to the echoing halls of
Tcmora. Remind him of the kings of Erin : the
stately forms of old. Let not the fallen be forgot:
they were mighty in the field. Let Carril pour his
song, that the kings may rejoice in their mist. To-
morrow I spread my sails to Selma's shaded walls :
where streamy Duth-ula winds through the seats of
roes."
CONLATH AND CUTHONA.
ARGUMENT.
Conlatli was the youngest of Momi's sons, and brother to the ce»!e.
brated Gaul. He was in love with Cuthona, the daughter oi
llumar^ when Toscar, the son of Kent'ena, accompanied by Fer-
cuth his friend, arrived from Ireland, at Mora, where Conlath
dwflt. He was hospitablv received, and according to the cus-
tom of the times, feasted three days with Conlath. On the fourth
he set sail, and coasting the island of waves, one of the^Hebrides,
he saw Cuthona huntins, fell in love with her, and carried her
away, by tbrce, in his sTiip. He was forced, by stress of wea-
iher, into I-thona, a desert isle. In the mean time Conlath hear-
ing 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 Ibllowers fell by mutual wounds. Cuthona did not long
survive : for she died of s;rief the third day after. Fingal hear-
ing of their unfortimate death, sent Stormal the son of Sloran to
bury them, but forgot to send a bard to sing the funeral song over
their tombs. The ghost of Conlath comes long after to Ossian,
to entreat him to transmit to posterity, his and Guthona'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, hke the evening sun, on my soul.
The noise of the chase is renewed. In thought, I hft
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 inOssian's hall. He feels it sometimes with his
hands. Yes, I hear thee, my friend ! Long has thy
voice been absent from mine ear ! What brings thee,
on thy cloud, to Ossian, son of generous Morni ? Are
the friends of the aged near thee ? Where is Oscar,
soil of fame ? He was often near thee, O Coiirlath,
when the sound of battle arose.
480 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN.
Ghost of ConJath. Sleeps the sweet voice of Cona,
in the midst of his rustling liall ? Sleeps Ossian in his
hall, and his friends without their fame ? The sea
rolls round dark I-thona. Our tombs are not seen in
our isle. How long shall our fame be unheard, son
of resounding Selma ?
Ossian. O that mine eyes could behold thee ! Thou
sittest, dim on thy cloud ! Art thou like the mist of
Lano ? An half-extinguished meteor of fire ? Of
what are the skirts of thy robe ? Of what is thine
airy bow ? He is gone on his blast like the shade of
a wandering cloud. Come from thy wall, O harp !
Let me hear thy sound. Let the light of memory rise
on Lthona ! Let me behold again my friends ! And
Ossian does behold his friends, on the dark-blue
isle. The cave of Thona appears, with its mossy
rocks and bending trees. A stream roars at its mouth.
Toscar bends over its course. Fercuth is sad by his
side. Cuthona sits at a distance and weeps. Does the
wind of the waves deceive me ? Or do I hear them
speak ?
Toscar. The niglit was stormy. From their hills
the groaning oaks came down. The sea darkly turn-
bled beneath the blast. The roaring waves climbed
against our rocks. The lightning came often and
showed the blasted fern. Fercuth ! I saw the ghost
who embroiled the night. Silent he stood, on that
bank. His robe of mist flew on the wind. I could
behold his tears. An aged man he seemed, and full of
thought !
Fercuth. It was thy father, O Toscar. He 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. Love.
CONLATH AND CUTHONA. 481
ly 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 trem-
ble amidst the night.
Toscar. Whither is the soul of battle fled, Fer-
cuth, 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 Conlath.
My course was by a desert isle : where Cuthona pur-
sued the deer. I saw her, like that beam of the sun
that issues from the cloud. Her hair was on her heav-
ing breast. She, bending forward, drew the bow. Her
white arm seemed, behind her, like the snow of Crom-
la. Come to my soul, I said, huntress of the desert
isle ! But she wastes her time in tears. She thinks
of the generous Conlath. Where can I find thy peace,
Cuthona, lovely maid ?
Cuthona, A distant steep bends over the sea, with
aged trees and mossy rocks. The billow rolls at its
feet. On its side is the dwelling of roes. The people
call it Mora. There the towers of my love arise.
There Conlath looks over the sea for his only love.
The daughters of the chase returned. He beheld their
downcast eyes. " Where is the daughter of Rumar ?"
But they answered not. My peace dwells on Mora,
son of the distant land !
Toscar. Cuthona shall return to her peace : to the
towers of generous Conlath. He is the friend of Tos-
car ! I have feasted in his halls ! Rise, ye gentle
breezes of Erin. Stretch my sails towards Mora's
41
482 THE rOEMS OF OSSIAN.
shores. Cuthona shall rest on Mora ; but the days of
Toscar must be sad. I shall sit in my cave in the field
of the sun. The blast will rustle in my trees, I shall
think it is Cuthona's voice. But she is distant far, in
the halls of the mighty Conlath !
Cuthona. Ha ! what cloud is that ? It carries the
ghost of my fathers. I see the skirts of their robes,
like gray and watery mist. When shall I fall, O Ru-
mar ? Sad Cuthona foresees her death. Will not
Conlath behold me, before I enter the narrow house ?
Ossian. He shall behold thee, O maid ! He comes
along the heaving sea. The death of Toscar is dark
on his spear. A wound is in his side ! He is pale at
the cave of Thona. He shows his ghastly woiuid.
VVliere art thou with thy tears, Cuthona ? The chief
of Mora dies. The vision grows dim on my mind. I
behold the chiefs no more ! But, O ye bards of future
times, remember the fall of Conlath with tears. He
fell before his day. Sadness darkened in his hall. His
mother looked to hi^ shield on the wall, and it was
bloody. She knew tliat her hero fell. Her sorrow
was heard on Mora. Art thou pale on thy rock, Cu-
thona, beside the fallen chiefs ? Night comes, and day
returns, but none appears to raise their tomb. Thou
frightenest the screaming fowls away. Thy tears for
ever flow. Thou art pale as a watery cloud, that rises
from a lake.
The sons of green Selma came. They found 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 !
BERRATHON.
ARGUMENT.
Fingal, ii; \ is vovage to Lochlin, whither he had .been invited by
Starno, ihe latlier of Agandecca, touched at Berrathon, an island
of Scandinavia, where he was kindly entertained by Larthmor,
the petty king of the place, who was a vassal of the supreme
kings of Lochlin. The hospitality of Larthmor gained him Fiu-
gal'a friendship, which that hero manifested, after the iinprison-
ment of Larthmor by his ov/n son, by sending Ossian and Toscar,
the father of Malvina, so often mentioned, to rescue Larthmor,
and to pLmi:?h the unnatural behavior of Uthal. Uthal was hand-
t^ome, and, by the ladies, jTiuch admired. Nina-thoma, the beau-
litul daughter of Tor-thoma, a neighboring prince, fell in love
and fled with him. He proved inconstant ; for another lady,
whose name is not mentioned, gaining his infections, he confined
Nina-thoma to a desert island, riear the coast of Berrathon. She
was relieved by Ossian, who, in company with Toscar, landing
on Berrathon, defeated the forces of Uthal, and killed him in
single combat. Nina-thoma, whose love not all the bad beha«
vior of Uthal could erase, hearing of his death, died of grief. In
the mean time Larthmor is restored, and Ossian and Toscar re-
turn in triumph to Fingal.
The poem opens with an elegy on the death of Malvina, the daugh-
ter of Toscar, and closes with the presages of Ossian's death,
Bend th)^ blue course, O strcLim ! round the narrow
plain of Lutha. Let the green woods hang over it,
from their hills; the sun look on it at noon. Tlie
thistle is there on its rock, and shtikes its beard to the
vvii^.d. The flower hangs its heavy head, waving, at
times, to the gale. " VVhy dost thou awake me, O
gale ?" it seems to say : " I am covered with the drops
of heaven. The time of my fading is near, the blast
that shall scatter my leaves. To-morrow shall the
traveller come ; he that saw me in my beauty shall
come. His eyes will search the field, but they will
not find me."" So shall they search in vain for the
voice of Cona, after it has failed in the field. The
484 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN.
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 ?" The tear will be on his cheek t
Then come thou, O Malvina ! with all thy music, come !
Lay Ossian in the plain of Lutha : let his tomb rise in
the lovely field.
Malvina ! where art thou, with thy songs ; with the
soft sound of thy steps ? Son of Alpin, art thou near ?
where is the daughter of Toscar ? "I passed, O son
of Fingal, by Torlutha's mossy walls. The smoke of
the hall was ceased. Silence was among the trees of
the hill. The voice of the chase was over. I saw the
daughters of the bow. I asked about Malvina, but they
answered not. They turned their faces away : thin
darkness covered their beauty. They were like stars,
on a rainy hill, by night, each looking faintly throiifrli
the mist !"
Pleasant be thy rest, O lovely beam ! soon hast lliou
set on our hills ! The steps of thy departure wore
stately, like the moon, on the blue-trembling wave.
But thou hast left us in darkness, first of the maids of
Lutha ! We sit, at the rock, and there is no voice ;
no light but the meteor of fire ! Soon hast thou set,
O Malvina, daughter of generous Toscar ! But thou
risest, like the beam of the east, among the spirits of
thy friends, where they sit, in their stormy halls, the
chambers of the thunder ! A cloud hovers over Cona,
Its blue curling sides are high. The winds are beneath
it, with their wings. Within it is the dwelling of Fin-
gal. There the hero sits in darkness. His airy spear
is in his hand. His shield, half covered with clouds,
is like the darkened moon ; when one half still remains
in the wave, and the other looks sickly on the field !
His friends sit round the king, on mist ! They hear
the songs of Ullin ; he strikes the half-viewless harp.
He raises the feeble voice. The lesser heroes, with a
BERRATHON. 485
thousand meteors, liglit the airy hall, Malvina rises
in the midst : a blush is on her cheek. She beholds
the unlvnovvn 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 of
Lutha. The maids* are departed to their place. Thou
alone, breeze, mournest there !"
But who comes from the dusky west, supported on a
cloud ?^ A smile is on his gray, watery face. His
locks of mist fly on wind. He bends forward on his
airy spear. It is thy father, Malvina ! " Why shinest
thou, so soon, on our clouds," he says, " O lovely light
of Lutha ? But thou wert sad, my daughter. Thy
friends had passed away. The sons of little men were
in the 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 v/as in the deep. Draw near,
Bon of Alpin, to the last sound of the voice of Cona !
The king of Morven commanded. I raised my sails
* That is, the young virgins who sung the funeral elegy over
her tomb.
42
486 THE POEMS OF OSSI.W,
to the wind. Toscar, chief of Lutha, slood 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 tlio feast of shelh
to Fingal, when he went to Starno's halis, 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 look-
ed on the king, when it trembled on the western wave.
Snitho came to Selma's hall ; Snitho, the friend of
Larthmor's youth. He told of the king of Berrathon :
the wrath of Fingal arose. Thrice he assumed the
spear, resolved to stretch his hand to Uthal. But the
memory of his deeds rose before the king. He sent
his son and Toscar. Our joy was great on the rolling
sea. We often half unsheathed our swords. F'or
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 along the coast of Berrathon. The white
waves tumble on the rocks. " What voice is that,"
said Toscar, " which comes between the sounds of the
waves ? It is soft but mournful, like the voice of de-
parted bards. But I behold a maid. She sits on the
rock alone. Her head bends on her arms of snow.
Her dark hair is in the wind. Hear, son of Fingal,
her song ; it is smooth as the gliding stream." We
came to the silent bay, and heard the maid of night.
BERRATHON. 487
*' 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 ! 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 V'
The tear started from my eye, when I heard the
voice of the maid. I stood before her in my arms. I
spoke the words of peace ! " Lovely dweller of the
cave ! what sigh is in thy breast ? Shall Ossian lift
his sword in thy presence, the destruction of thy foes ?
Daughter of Tor-thoma, rise ! I have heard the words
of thy grief. The race of Morven are around thee,
who never injured the weak. Come to our dark-
bosomed ship, thou brighter than the setting moon !
Our course is to the rocky Berrathon, to the echoing
walls of Fin-thormo.'' She came in her beauty ; she
came with all her lovely steps. Silent joy brightened
in her face ; as when the shadows fly from the field
of spring ; the blue stream is rolling in brightness,
and the green bush bends over its course !
The morning rose with its beams. We came to
Rothma's bay. A boar rushed from the wood : my
spear pierced his side, and he fell. I rejoiced over the
blood. I foresaw my growing fame. But now the
sound of Uthal's train came, from the high Fin-thormo.
They spread over the heath to the chase of the boar.
Himself comes slowly on, in the pride of his strength.
He lifts two pointed spccirs. On his side is the hero's
488 THE POEMS OF oSSIAN.
sword. Three youths carry his polished hows. The
bounding of five dogs is be tore him. His heroes move
on, at a distance, admiring the steps of the king.
Stately was the son of Larthmor ! but his soul was
dark ! Dark as the troubled face of the moon, when
it foretells the storms.
We rose on the heath before the king. He stopped
in the midst of his course. His heroes gathered around.
A gray-haired bard advanced. " Whence are the sons
of the strangers ?" began the bard of song. " The
children of the unhappy come to Berrathon : to the
sword of car-borne Uthal. He spreads no feast in his
hall. The blood of strangers is on his streams. If
from Selma's walls ye come, from the mossy walls of
Fingal, choose three youths to go to your king to tell
of the fall of his people. Perhaps the hero may come
and pour his blood on Udial's sv/ord. So shall the
fame of Fin-thormo arise ; like the growing tree of
the vale V
" Never will it rise, O bard !" I said, in the pride
of my wrath. " He would shrink from the presence
of Fingal, whose eyes are the flames of death. The
son of Comhal comes, and kings vanish before him.
They are rolled together, like mist, by the breath of
his rage. Shall three tell to Fingal, that his people
fell ? Yes ! they may tell it, bard ! but his people
shall fall with fame !"
I stood in the darkness of my strength. Toscar
drew his sword at my side. The foe came on like a
stream. The mingled sound of death arose. Man
took man ; shield met shield ; steel mixed its beams
with steel. Darts hiss through air. Spears ring on
mails. Swords on broken bucklers bound. As the
noise of an aged grove beneath the roaring wind, when
a thousand ghosts break the trees by night, such was
\he din of anns ! But Uthal fell beneath my sword.
PEHT^ATIION. 489
The sons of Barrathon fled. It was then T saw him in
his beauty, and the tear hung in my eye ! " Thou art
fallen, young tree, I said, with all thy beauty round
thee. Thou art fallen on thy plains, and the field is
bare. The winds come from the desert! there is no
sound in thy leaves ! Lovely art thou in death, son of
car-borne Larthmor."
Nina-thoma sat on the shore. She heard the sound
of battle. She turned her red eyes on Lethmal, the
gray-haired bard of Sclma. He alone had remained
on the coast with the daughter of Tor-thoma. " Son
of the times of old !" she said, " I hear the noise of
death. Thy friends have met with Uthal, and the chief
is low ! O that I had remained on the rock, enclosed
with the tumbling waves ? Then would my soul be sad,
but his death would not reach my ear. Art thou fallen
on the heath, O son of high Fin-thormo ? Thou didst
leave me on a rock, but my soul was full of thee. Son
of high Fin-thormo ! art thou fallen on thy heath V
She rose pale in her tears. She saw the bloody
shield of Uthal. She saw it in Ossian's hand. Her
steps were distracted on the heath. She flew. She
found him. She fell. Her soul came forth in a sigh.
Her hair is spread on her face. My bursting tears
descend. A tomb arose on the unhappy. My song
of wo was heard. " Rest, hapless children of youth !
Rest at the noise of that mossy stream ! The virgins
wir 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 !"
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
490 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN.
aged was great. He looked to the arms of his fathers;
the arms which he left in his hall, when the pride of
Uthal rose. We were renowned before Larthmor.
He blessed the chiefs of Morvcn. 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. Th(iy had told it, but he was silent in the
tomb of Rothma's heath.
On the fourth day we raised our sails, to the roai
of the northern wind. Larthmor came to the coast.
His bards exalted the song. The joy of the king was
great ; he looked to Rothma's gloomy heath. He saw
the tomb of his son. The memory of Uthal rose.
" Who of my heroes," he said, " lies there ? he seems
to have been of the kings of men. Was he renowned
in my halls before the pride of Uthal rose ? Ye are
silent, sons of Berrathon! is the king of heroes low?
My heart melts for thee, O Uthal ! though thy hand
was against thy father. O that I had remained in the
cave ! that my son had dwelt in Fin-thormo ! I might
have heard the tread of his feet, when he went to the
chase of the boar. I might have heard his voice on
the blast of my cave. Then would my soul be glad;
but now darkness dwells in my halls."
Such were my deeds, son of Alpin, when the arm
of my youth was strong. Such the actions of Toscar,
the car-borne son of Conloch. But Toscar is on his
flying cloud. I am alone at Lutha. My voice is like
the last sound of the wind, v.'hcn 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 stat-
ure 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, Daikness shall roll on my side
BERRATHON. 491
Lead, son of Alpin, lead the aged to his woods.
The winds begin to rise. The dark wave of the lalve
resounds. Bends there not a tree from Mora with its
branches bare ? It bends, son of Alpin, in the rustling
blast. My harp hangs on a blasted branch. The
sound of its strings is mournful. Does the wind touch
thee, O harp, or is it some passing ghost ? It is the
hand of Malvina ! Bring me the harp, son of Alpin. An-
other 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 behind
it with their weeping eyes. Thy shield is the aged
moon: thy sword a vapor half kindled with fire. Dim
and feeble is the chief who travelled in brightness be-
fore ! But thy steps are on the winds of the desert,
The storms are darkening in thy hand. Thou takest
the sun in thy wrath, and hidest him in thy clouds.
The sons of little men are afraid. A thousand showers
descend. But when thou comest forth in thy mildness,
the gale of the morning is near thy course. The sun
laughs in his blue fields. The gray stream winds in
its vale. The bushes shake their green heads in the
wind. The roes bound towards the desert.
" There is a murmur in the heath ! the stormy winds
492 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN.
abate ! I hear the voice of Fingal. Long has it been
absent from nmine ear ! ' Come, Ossian, come away,*
he says. Fingal has received his fame. We passed
away, like flames that have shone for a season. Our
departure was in renown. Though the plains of our
battles are dark and silent ; our fame is in the four
gray stones. The voice of Ossian has been heard.
The harp has been strung in Selma. ' Come. Ossian,
come away,' he says ; ' come, fly with thy fathers on
clouds.' I come, I come, thou king of men ! The life
of Ossian fails. I begin to vanish on Cona. My steps
are not seen in Selma. Beside the stone of Mora I
shall fall asleep. The winds whistling in my gray
hair, shall not awaken me. Depart on thy wings, O
wind, thou canst not disturb the rest of the bard. The
night is long, but his eyes are heavy. Depart, thou
rustling blast.
" But why art thou sad, son of Fingal ? Why grows
the cloud of thy soul ? The chiefs of other times are
departed. They have gone without their fame. The
sons of future years shall pass away. Another race
shall arise. The people are like the waves of ocean ;
like the leaves of woody Morven, they pass away in the
rustling blast, and other leaves lift their green heads
on high.
" Did thy beauty last, O Ryno ? Stood the strength
of car-borne Oscar ! Fingal himself departed ! The
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 ?"
6 69
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