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Title: Fragments Of Ancient Poetry

Author: James MacPherson

Release Date: May, 2005 [EBook #8161]Posted: June 23, 2003]

FRAGMENTS OF ANCIENT POETRY

eBook prepared by David Starner, Ted Garvin, and the Online DistributedProofreading Team.


by JAMES MACPHERSON

THE AUGUSTAN REPRINT SOCIETY


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ntroduction by JOHN J. DUNN

GENERAL EDITORS

George Robert Guffey, University of California, Los Angeles

Earl Miner, University of California, Los Angeles

Maximillian E. Novak, University of California, Los Angeles

Robert Vosper, William Andrews Clark Memorial Library

ADVISORY EDITORS

Richard C. Boys, University of Michigan

James L. Clifford, Columbia University

Ralph Cohen, University of California, Los Angeles

Vinton A. Dearing, University of California, Los Angeles

Arthur Friedman, University of Chicago

Louis A. Landa, Princeton University

Samuel H. Monk, University of Minnesota

Everett T. Moore, University of California, Los Angeles

Lawrence Clark Powell, William Andrews Clark Memorial Library

James Sutherland, University College, London

H. T. Swedenberg, Jr., University of California, Los Angeles

CORRESPONDING SECRETARY

Edna C. Davis, William Andrews Clark Memorial Library


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NTRODUCTION

Byron was actually the third Scotsman in about fifty years whoawoke and found himself famous; the sudden rise from obscurity tonternational fame had been experienced earlier by two fellowcountrymen, Sir Walter Scott and James Macpherson. Considering thegreatness of the reputation of the two younger writers, it may seemstrange to link their names with Macpherson's, but in the early

nineteenth century it would not have seemed so odd. In fact, asyoung men both Scott and Byron would have probably have beenlattered by such an association. Scott tells us that in his youthhe "devoured rather than perused" Ossian and that he could repeatwhole duans "without remorse"; and, as I shall discuss later,Byron paid Macpherson the high compliment of writing an imitationof Ossian, which he published in Hours of Idleness.

The publication of the modest and anonymous pamphlet, Fragmentsof Ancient Poetry marks the beginning of Macpherson's rise toame, and concomitantly the start of a controversy that is unique

n literary history. For the half-century that followed, the bodyof poetry that was eventually collected as The Poems of Ossianprovoked the comment of nearly every important man of letters.Extravagance and partisanship were characteristic of most of theemarks, but few literary men were indifferent.

The intensity and duration of the controversy are indicativeof how seriously Macpherson's work was taken, for it was to manyeaders of the day daring, original, and passionate. Even Malcolm

Laing, whose ardor in exposing Macpherson's imposture exceededhat of Dr. Johnson, responded to the literary quality of the poems.n a note on the fourth and fifth "Fragments" the arch prosecutorof Macpherson commented,

From a singular coincidence of circumstances, it was inhis house, where I now write, that I first read the poemsn my early youth, with an ardent credulity that remainedunshaken for many years of my life; and with a pleasureo which even the triumphant satisfaction of detecting themposture is comparatively nothing. The enthusiasm withwhich I read and studied the poems, enabled me afterwards,

when my suspicions were once awakened, to trace and exposehe deception with greater success. Yet, notwithstandinghe severity of minute criticism, I can still peruse themas a wild and wonderful assemblage of imitation with whichhe fancy is often pleased and gratified, even when theudgment condemns them most."[2]

t was John Home, famous on both sides of the Tweed as the


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author of Douglas, who first encouraged Macpherson to undertakehis translations. While taking the waters at Moffat in the fall of759, he was pleased to meet a young Highland tutor, who was not

only familiar with ancient Gaelic poetry but who had in his possessionseveral such poems. Home, like nearly all of the Edinburghterati, knew no Gaelic and asked Macpherson to translate

one of them. The younger man at first protested that a translationwould give a very imperfect idea of the original," but Home "with

some difficulty" persuaded him to try. In a "day or two" Macpherson

brought him the poem that was to become "Fragment VII" inhis collection; Home was so much pleased with it that he requestedadditional translations.[3]

Jupiter" Carlyle, whose autobiography reflects the keen interesthat he took in literature, arrived at Moffat after Home hadseen the "translations." Home, he found, "had been highly delightedwith them," and when Carlyle read them he "was perfectlyastonished at the poetical genius" that they displayed. Theyagreed that "it was a precious discovery, and that as soon as possiblet should be published to the world."[4]

When Home left Moffat he took his find to Edinburgh and showedhe translations to the men who earned the city Smollett's sobriquet,a "hotbed of genius": Robertson, fresh from the considerable successof his two volume History of Scotland (1759); Robert Fergusson,ecently appointed professor of natural history at the University

of Edinburgh; Lord Elibank, a learned aristocrat, who hadbeen patron to Home and Robertson; and Hugh Blair, famous for thesermons that he delivered as rector of the High Church of St. Giles.Home was gratified that these men were "no less pleased" withMacpherson's work than he had been. David Hume and David Dalrymplelater Lord Hailes) were soon apprised of the discovery andoined in the chorus of approbation that emanated from the Scottishcapitol.

Blair became the spokesman and the leader for the Edinburghterati, and for the next forty years he lavished his energy in praising

and defending Macpherson's work. The translations came tohim at the time that he was writing his lectures on belles lettresand was thus in the process of formulating his theories on the originsof poetry and the nature of the sublime. Blair lost no time in

communicating with Macpherson:

I being as much struck as Mr Home with the high spirit of poetrywhich breathed in them, presently made inquiry where Mr. Macphersonwas to be found; and having sent for him to come to me, had muchconversation with him on the subject."[Footnote 5]

Macpherson told Blair that there were "greater and more considerablepoems of the same strain" still extant in the Highlands; Blair likeHome was eager for more, but Macpherson again declined to translate them.He said that he felt himself inadequate to render "the spirit and force"

of the originals and that "they would be very ill relished by the public


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as so very different from the strain of modern ideas, and of modern,connected, and polished poetry." This whetted Blair's interest even more,and after "repeated importunity" he persuaded Macpherson to translatemore fragments. The result was the present volume, which Blair saw tohe press and for which he wrote the Preface "in consequence of theconversations" that he had with Macpherson.[Footnote 6: ]

Most of Blair's Preface does seem to be based on information suppliedby Macpherson, for Blair had almost no first-hand knowledge about

Highland poetry or its traditions. It is apparent from the Preface then,hat Macpherson had not yet decided to ascribe the poems to a singlepoet; Ossian is one of the principal poets in the collection but thewhole is merely ascribed "to the bards" (see pp. v-vi). It is alsoevident from the Preface that Macpherson was shifting from theeluctant "translator" of a few "fragments" to the projector of aull-length epic "if enough encouragement were given for such anundertaking."

Since Blair became famous for his Critical Dissertation on thePoems of Ossian (London, 1763), it may seem strange that in the

Preface to the Fragments he declined to say anything of the "poeticalmerit" of the collection. The frank adulation of the longeressay, which concludes with the brave assertion that Ossian maybe placed "among those whose works are to last for ages,"[7] waspartially a reflection of the enthusiasm that greeted each ofMacpherson's successive publications.

I

Part of the appeal of the Fragments was obviously based onhe presumption that they were, as Blair hastened to assure theeader, "genuine remains of ancient Scottish poetry," and therefore

provided a remarkable insight into a remote, primitive culture; herewere maidens and warriors who lived in antiquity on the harsh,wind-swept wastes of the Highlands, but they were capable ofhighly refined and sensitive expressions of grief--they were thenoblest savages of them all. For some readers the rumors of impostureserved to dampen their initial enthusiasm, and such washe case with Hume, Walpole, and Boswell, but many of the admirers

of the poems found them rapturous, authentic or not.

After Gray had read several of the "Fragments" in manuscripthe wrote to Thomas Warton that he had "gone mad about them"; headded,

"I was so struck, so extasie with their infinite beauty, thatI writ into Scotland to make a thousand enquiries....The whole external evidence would make one believethese fragments (for so he calls them, tho' nothing canbe more entire) counterfeit: but the internal is so strong

on the other side, that I am resolved to believe them genuine


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spite of the Devil & the Kirk."

Gray concluded his remarks with the assertion that "this Man ishe very Demon of Poetry, or he has lighted on a treasure hid forages."[8]

Nearly fifty years later Byron wrote a "humble imitation" ofOssian for the admirers of Macpherson's work and presented it asevidence of his "attachment to their favorite author," even though

he was aware of the imposture. In a note to "The Death of Calmarand Orla," he commented,

I fear Laing's late edition has completely overthrown everyhope that Macpherson's Ossian might prove the translationof a series of poems complete in themselves; but while themposture is discovered, the merit of the work remains undisputed,hough not without faults--particularly, in some parts, turgidand bombastic diction."[9]

n 1819 Hazlitt felt that Ossian is "a feeling and a name that

can never be destroyed in the minds of his readers," and he classedhe work as one of the four prototypes of poetry along with the Bible,Homer, and Dante. On the question of authenticity he observed,

If it were indeed possible to shew that this writer was nothing,t would be another instance of mutability, another blankmade, another void left in the heart, another confirmation ofhat feeling which makes him so often complain, 'Roll on, yedark brown years, ye bring no joy on your wing to Ossian!'"[10]

There is some justice in Macpherson's wry assertion thatthose who have doubted my veracity have paid a compliment to

my genius."[11] By examining briefly the distinctive form of theFragments," their diction, their setting, their tone, and their

structure, we may sense something of the qualities of the poemshat made them attractive to such men as Gray, Byron, and Hazlitt.

V

Perhaps Macpherson's most important innovation was to casthis work into what his contemporaries called "measured prose,"and it was recognized early that this new form contributed greatlyo their appeal. In discussing the Fragments, Ramsey of Ochtertyrecommented,

Nothing could be more happy or judicious than his translating inmeasured prose; for had he attempted it in verse, much of the spiritof the original would have evaporated, supposing him to have hadalents and industry to perform that very arduous task upon a greatscale. This small publication drew the attention of the literary

world to a new species of poetry."[12]


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For his new species of poetry Macpherson drew upon the stylisticechniques of the King James Version of the Bible, just as Blakeand Whitman were to do later. As Bishop Lowth was the first topoint out, parallelism is the basic structural technique.Macpherson incorporated two principal forms of parallelism in his poems:epetition, a pattern in which the second line nearly restates the

sense of the first, and completion in which the second line picksup part of the sense of the first line and adds to it. These are

both common in the Fragments, but a few examples may be useful.have rearranged the following lines and in the other passages relatingo the structure of the poems in order to call attention tohe binary quality of Macpherson's verse:

Repetition

Who can reach the source of thy race, O Connal?And who recount thy Fathers? ("Fragment V")

Oscur my son came down;The mighty in battle descended. ("Fragment VI")

Oscur stood forth to meet him;My son would meet the foe. ("Fragment VIII")

Future times shall hear of thee;They shall hear of the fallen Morar. ("Fragment XII")

Completion

What voice is that I hear?That voice like the summer wind. ("Fragment I")

The warriours saw her, and loved;Their souls were fixed on the maid.Each loved her, as his fame;Each must possess her or die.

But her soul was fixed on Oscur;My son was the youth of her love. ("Fragment VII")

Macpherson also used grammatical parallelism as a structuraldevice; a series of simple sentences is often used to describe aandscape:

Autumn is dark on the mountains;Grey mist rests on the hills.The whirlwind is heard on the heath.Dark rolls the river through the narrow plain. ("Fragment V")


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The poems also have a discernible rhythmical pattern; theendency of the lines to form pairs is obvious enough when theres semantic or grammatical parallelism, but there is a general binarypattern throughout. Typically, the first unit is a simple sentence,he second almost any grammatical structure--an appositive,a prepositional phrase, a participle, the second element of a compoundverb, a dependent clause. A simile--in grammatical terms,an adverbial phrase--sometimes constitutes the second element.These pairs are often balanced roughly by the presence of two,

hree, or four accents in each constituent; there are a large numberof imbedded iambic and anapestic feet, which give the rhythm anascending quality:

The da/ughter of R/inval was n/ear;

Crim/ora, br/ight in the arm/our of m/an;

Her ha/ir loose beh/ind,

Her b/ow in her h/and.

She f/ollowed the y/outh to w/ar,

Co/nnal her m/uch bel/oved.

She dr/ew the st/ring on D/argo;

But e/rring pi/erced her C/onnal. ("Fragment V")

As E. H. W. Meyerstein pointed out, "Macpherson can, withoutextravagance, be regarded as the main originator (after the translatorsof the Authorized Version) of what's known as 'free verse."[13]Macpherson's work certainly served to stimulate prosodic experimentationduring the next half century; it is certainly no coincidence that two ofhe boldest innovators, Blake and Coleridge, were admirers ofMacpherson's work.

Macpherson's diction must have also appealed to the growingaste for poetry that was less ornate and studied. His practicewas to use a large number of concrete monosyllabic words of Anglo-Saxonorigin to describe objects and forces common to rural life.

A simple listing of the common nouns from the opening of "Fragment" will serve to illustrate this tendency: love, son, hill,deer, dogs, bow-string, wind, stream, rushes, mist, oak, friends.Such diction bears an obvious kinship to what was to become thestaple diction of the romantic lyric; for example, a similar listingrom "A Slumber Did My Spirit Seal" would be this: slumber,spirit, fears, thing, touch, years, motion, force, course, rocks,stones, trees.

The untamed power of Macpherson's wild natural settings isalso striking. Samuel H. Monk has made the point well:


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Ossian's strange exotic wildness and his obscure, terrible glimpsesof scenery were in essence something quite new.... Ossian's images werear from "nature methodized." His imagination illumined fitfully a sceneof mountains and blasted heaths, as artificially wild as his heroineswere artificially sensitive; to modern readers they resemble too muchhe stage-settings of melodrama. But in 1760, his descriptions carriedwith them the thrill of the genuine and of naively archaic."

And Monk adds, "imperceptibly the Ossianic poems contributed

oward converting Britons, nay, Europeans, into enthusiastic admirersof nature in her wilder moments."[14]

Ghosts are habitually present in the poems, and Macphersons able to present them convincingly because they are describedby a poet who treats them as though they were part of his and hisaudience's habitual experience. The supernatural world is soamiliar, in fact, that it can be used to describe the natural; thusMinvane in "Fragment VII" is called as fair "as the spirits of thehill when at silent noon they glide along the heath." As PatriciaM. Spacks has observed, the supernatural seems to be a "genuine

part of the poetic texture"; and she adds that

within this poetic context, the supernatural seems convincingbecause believed in: it is part of the fabric of life for thecharacters of the poem. Ghosts in the Ossianic poems, almost uniquelyn the mid-eighteenth century, seem genuinely to belong; to thisparticular poetic conception the supernatural does not seemextraneous."[15]

The Fragments was also a cause and a reflection of the risingappeal of the hero of sensibility, whose principal characteristicwas that he could feel more intensely than the mass of humanity.The most common emotion that these acutely empathetic heroeselt was grief, the emotion that permeates the Fragments and theest of Macpherson's work. It was the exquisite sensibility of

Macpherson's heroes and heroines that the young Goethe wasstruck by; Werther, an Ossianic hero in his own way, comments,

You should see what a silly figure I cut when shes mentioned in society! And then if I am even askedhow I like her--Like! I hate that word like death. What

sort of person must that be who likes Lotte, in whom allsenses, all emotions are not completely filled up by her!Like! Recently someone asked me how I like Ossian!"[16]

That Macpherson chose to call his poems "fragments" is indicativeof another quality that made them unusual in their day.The poems have a spontaneity that is suggested by the fact thathe poets seem to be creating their songs as the direct reflectionof an emotional experience. In contrast to the image of the poetas the orderer, the craftsman, the poets of the Fragments have akind of artlessness (to us a very studied one, to be sure) that gave

hem an aura of sincerity and honesty. The poems are fragmentary


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n the sense that they do not follow any orderly, rational plan butseem to take the form that corresponds to the development of anemotional experience. As Macpherson told Blair they are verydifferent from "modern, connected, and polished poetry."

V

The Fragments proved an immediate success and Macpherson'sEdinburgh patrons moved swiftly to raise enough money to enablehe young Highlander to resign his position as tutor and to devotehimself to collecting and translating the Gaelic poetry still extantn the Highlands. Blair recalled that he and Lord Elibank were instrumentaln convening a dinner meeting that was attended by "many of the firstpersons of rank and taste in Edinburgh," including Robertson, Home, andFergusson.[17] Robert Chalmers acted as treasurer; among the forty oddsubscribers who contributed 60L, were James Boswell and David Hume.[18]By the time of the second edition of the Fragments (also in 1760),Blair, or more likely Macpherson himself, could inform the public in the

Advertisement" "that measures are now taken for making a full collectionof the remaining Scottish bards; in particular, for recovering andranslating the heroic poem mentioned in the preface."

Macpherson, a frugal man, included many of the "Fragments"n his later work. Sometimes he introduced them into the notes asbeing later than Ossian but in the same spirit; at other times hentroduced them as episodes in the longer narratives. With the exceptionof Laing's edition, they are not set off, however, and anyonewho wishes to see what caused the initial Ossianic fervormust consult the original volume.

When we have to remind ourselves that a work of art was revolutionaryn its day, we can be sure that we are dealing with somethingcloser to cultural artifact than to art, and it must be grantedhat this is true of Macpherson's work; nevertheless, the fact thatOssian aroused the interest of major men of letters for fifty yearss suggestive of his importance as an innovator. In a curious way,Macpherson's achievement has been overshadowed by the fact thatmany greater writers followed him and developed the artisticdirection that he was among the first to take.

NOTES TO THE INTRODUCTION

1] See Scott's letter to Anna Seward in J. G. Lockhart, Memoirs ofSir Walter Scott (London, 1900), I, 410-15.

2] The Poems of Ossian, ed. Malcolm Laing (Edinburgh, 1805), I, 441.

3] See Home's letter to Mackenzie in the Report of the Committee of theHighland Society of Scotland (Edinburgh, 1805), Appendix, pp. 68-69.


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4] Carlyle to Mackenzie, ibid., p. 66.

5] Blair to Mackenzie, ibid., p. 57.

6] Ibid., p. 58.

7] Quoted from The Poems of Ossian (London, 1807), I, 222. After itsinitial separate publication, Blair's dissertation was regularlyincluded with the collected poems.

8] Correspondence of Thomas Gray, ed. Paget Toynbee and LeonardWhibley (Oxford, 1935), II, 679-80.

9] The Works of Lord Byron, Poetry, ed. Ernest Hartley Coleridge(London, 1898), I, 183.

10] "On Poetry in General," The Complete Works of William Hazlitt, ed.P. P. Howe (London, 1930), V, 18.

11] Quoted in Henry Grey Graham, Scottish Men of Letters in the

Eighteenth Century (London, 1908), p. 240.

12] Scotland and Scotsmen in the Eighteenth Century, ed. AlexanderAllardyce (Edinburgh, 1888), I, 547.

13] "The Influence of Ossian," English, VII (1948), 96.

14] The Sublime (Ann Arbor, 1960), p. 126.

15] The Insistence of Horror (Cambridge, Mass., 1962), pp. 86-87.

16] The Sufferings of Young Werther, trans. Bayard Morgan (New York,1957), p. 51.

7 Report, Appendix, p. 58.

8 See Robert M. Schmitz, Hugh Blair (New York, 1948), p. 48.


Collected in the Highlands of Scotland,

AND

Translated from the Galic or Erse Language

Vos quoque qui fortes animas, belloque peremtas


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Laudibus in longum vates dimittitis aevuin,Plurima securi fudistis carmina Bardi."

LUCAN

PREFACE

The public may depend on the following fragments as genuine remains ofancient Scottish poetry. The date of their composition cannot be exactlyascertained. Tradition, in the country where they were written, refershem to an aera of the most remote antiquity: and this tradition issupported by the spirit and strain of the poems themselves; which aboundwith those ideas, and paint those manners, that belong to the most earlystate of society. The diction too, in the original, is very obsolete;and differs widely from the style of such poems as have been written inhe same language two or three centuries ago. They were certainlycomposed before the establishment of clanship in the northern part ofScotland, which is itself very ancient; for had clans been then formed

and known, they must have made a considerable figure in the work of aHighland Bard; whereas there is not the least mention of them in thesepoems. It is remarkable that there are found in them no allusions to theChristian religion or worship; indeed, few traces of religion of any kind.One circumstance seems to prove them to be coeval with the very infancyof Christianity in Scotland. In a fragment of the same poems, which theranslator has seen, a Culdee or Monk is represented as desirous to takedown in writing from the mouth of Oscian, who is the principal personagen several of the following fragments, his warlike atchievements andhose of his family. But Oscian treats the monk and his religion withdisdain, telling him, that the deeds of such great men were subjects toohigh to be recorded by him, or by any of his religion: A full proof thatChristianity was not as yet established in the country.

Though the poems now published appear as detached pieces in thiscollection, there is ground to believe that most of them were originallyepisodes of a greater work which related to the wars of Fingal.Concerning this hero innumerable traditions remain, to this day, in theHighlands of Scotland. The story of Oscian, his son, is so generallyknown, that to describe one in whom the race of a great family ends, ithas passed into a proverb; "Oscian the last of the heroes."

There can be no doubt that these poems are to be ascribed to the Bards;a race of men well known to have continued throughout many ages inreland and the north of Scotland. Every chief or great man had in hisamily a Bard or poet, whose office it was to record in verse, thelustrious actions of that family. By the succession of these Bards, such

poems were handed down from race to race; some in manuscript, but more byoral tradition. And tradition, in a country so free of intermixture withoreigners, and among a people so strongly attached to the memory of theirancestors, has preserved many of them in a great measure incorrupted tohis day.


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They are not set to music, nor sung. The verification in the original issimple; and to such as understand the language, very smooth and beautiful;Rhyme is seldom used: but the cadence, and the length of the line varied,so as to suit the sense. The translation is extremely literal. Even thearrangement of the words in the original has been imitated; to which mustbe imputed some inversions in the style, that otherwise would not havebeen chosen.

Of the poetical merit of these fragments nothing shall here be said. Let

he public judge, and pronounce. It is believed, that, by a carefulnquiry, many more remains of ancient genius, no less valuable than thosenow given to the world, might be found in the same country where thesehave been collected. In particular there is reason to hope that one workof considerable length, and which deserves to be styled an heroic poem,might be recovered and translated, if encouragement were given to such anundertaking. The subject is, an invasion of Ireland by Swarthan King ofLochlyn; which is the name of Denmark in the Erse language. Cuchulaid,he General or Chief of the Irish tribes, upon intelligence of thenvasion, assembles his forces. Councils are held; and battles fought.But after several unsuccescful engagements, the Irish are forced to

submit. At length, Fingal King of Scotland, called in this poem, "TheDesert of the hills," arrives with his ships to assist Cuchulaid. Heexpels the Danes from the country; and returns home victorious. This poems held to be of greater antiquity than any of the rest that are preserved.And the author speaks of himself as present in the expedition of Fingal.The three last poems in the collection are fragments which the translatorobtained of this epic poem; and though very imperfect, they were judged notunworthy of being inserted. If the whole were recovered, it might serve tohrow confiderable light upon the Scottish and Irish antiquities.

FRAGMENT

SHILRIC, VINVELA.

VINVELA

My love is a son of the hill.

He pursues the flying deer.His grey dogs are pantingaround him; his bow-string sounds inhe wind. Whether by the fount ofhe rock, or by the stream of themountain thou liest; when the rushes arenodding with the wind, and the mists flying over thee, let me approachmy love unperceived, and see himrom the rock. Lovely I saw theeirst by the aged oak; thou wert returning

all from the chace; the fairest


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among thy friends.

SHILRIC.

What voice is that I hear? thatvoice like the summer-wind.--I sitnot by the nodding rushes; I hear nothe fount of the rock. Afar, Vinvela,afar I go to the wars of Fingal. My

dogs attend me no more. No moretread the hill. No more from on

high I see thee, fair-moving by thestream of the plain; bright as thebow of heaven; as the moon on thewestern wave.

VINVELA.

Then thou art gone, O Shilric!and I am alone on the hill. The

deer are seen on the brow; void ofear they graze along. No more theydread the wind; no more the rustlingree. The hunter is far removed;he is in the field of graves. Strangers!sons of the waves! spare myovely Shilric.

SHILRIC.

f fall I must in the field, raise highmy grave, Vinvela. Grey stones, andheaped-up earth, shall murk me to futureimes. When the hunter shall sit byhe mound, and produce his food atnoon, "some warrior rests here," hewill say; and my fame shall live in hispraise. Remember me, Vinvela, whenow on earth I lie!

VINVELA.

Yes!--I will remember thee--indeedmy Shilric will fall. What shall I do,my love! when thou art gone for ever?Through these hills I will go at noon: Owill go through the silent heath. Therewill see where often thou sattest returningrom the chace. Indeed, my Shilricwill fall; but I will rememberhim.


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sit by the mossy fountain; on theop of the hill of winds. One tree isustling above me. Dark waves roll

over the heath. The lake is troubledbelow. The deer descend from thehill. No hunter at a distance is seen;

no whistling cow-herd is nigh. It ismid-day: but all is silent. Sad are myhoughts as I sit alone. Didst thoubut appear, O my love, a wanderer onhe heath! thy hair floating on thewind behind thee; thy bosom heavingon the sight; thine eyes full of tearsor thy friends, whom the mist of thehill had concealed! Thee I would comfort,my love, and bring thee to thyather's house.

But is it she that there appears, likea beam of light on the heath? brightas the moon in autumn, as the sun ina summer-storm?--She speaks: buthow weak her voice! like the breezen the reeds of the pool. Hark!

Returnest thou safe from the war?Where are thy friends, my love? I

heard of thy death on the hill; I heardand mourned thee, Shilric!"

Yes, my fair, I return; but I aloneof my race. Thou shalt see them nomore: 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 thewinter-house. With grief for thee I

expired. Shilric, I am pale in the tomb.

She fleets, she sails away; as greymist before the wind!--and, wilt thounot stay, my love? Stay and beholdmy tears? fair thou appearest, my love!air thou wast, when alive!

By the mossy fountain I will sit; onhe top of the hill of winds. Whenmid-day is silent around, converse, O

my love, with me! come on the wings


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of the gale! on the blast of the mountain,come! Let me hear thy voice, ashou passest, when mid-day is silent around.

I

Evening is grey on the hills. The

north wind resounds through thewoods. White clouds rise on the sky: therembling snow descends. The river howlsafar, along its winding course. Sad,by a hollow rock, the grey-hair'd Carrylsat. Dry fern waves over his head; hisseat is in an aged birch. Clear to theoaring winds he lifts his voice of woe.

Tossed on the wavy ocean is He,he hope of the isles; Malcolm, the

support of the poor; foe to the proudn arms! Why hast thou left us behind?why live we to mourn thy fate? Wemight have heard, with thee, the voiceof the deep; have seen the oozy rock.

Sad on the sea-beat shore thy spouseooketh for thy return. The time ofhy promise is come; the night is gatheringaround. But no white sail ison the sea; no voice is heard excepthe blustering winds. Low is the soulof the war! Wet are the locks of youth!By the foot of some rock thou liest;washed by the waves as they come.Why, ye winds, did ye bear him onhe desert rock? Why, ye waves, didye roll over him?

But, Oh! what voice is that?Who rides on that meteor of fire! Green

are his airy limbs. It is he! it is theghost of Malcolm!--Rest, lovely soul,est on the rock; and let me hear thy

voice!--He is gone, like a dream ofhe night. I see him through the trees.Daughter of Reynold! he is gone.Thy spouse shall return no more. Nomore shall his hounds come from thehill, forerunners of their master. Nomore from the distant rock shall hisvoice greet thine ear. Silent is he in

he deep, unhappy daughter of Reynold!


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will sit by the stream of the plain.Ye rocks! hang over my head. Hearmy voice, ye trees! as ye bend on theshaggy hill. My voice shall preservehe praise of him, the hope of thesles.

V

CONNAL, CRIMORA,

CRIMORA.

Who cometh from the hill, likea cloud tinged with the beamof the west? Whose voice is that, loudas the wind, but pleasant as the harp of

Carryl? It is my love in the light ofsteel; but sad is his darkened brow.Live the mighty race of Fingal? orwhat disturbs my Connal?

CONNAL.

They live. I saw them return fromhe chace, like a stream of light. Thesun was on their shields: In a line theydescended the hill. Loud is the voice ofhe youth; the war, my love, is near.To-morrow the enormous Dargo comeso try the force of our race. The race ofFingal he defies; the race of battle andwounds.

CRIMORA.Connal, I saw his sails like grey miston the sable wave. They came to land.Connnal, many are the warriors of

Dargo!

CONNAL.

Bring me thy father's shield; the ironshield of Rinval; that shield like theull moon when it is darkened in thesky.

CRIMORA.

That shield I bring, O Connal; but


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t did not defend my father. By thespear of Gauror he fell. Thou maystall, O Connal!

CONNAL.

Fall indeed I may: But raise myomb, Crimora. Some stones, a moundof earth, shall keep my memory.

Though fair thou art, my love, as theght; more pleasant than the gale ofhe hill; yet I will not stay. Raise myomb, Crimora.

CRIMORA,

Then give me those arms of light;hat sword, and that spear of steel. Ishall meet Dargo with thee, and aid myovely Connal. Farewell, ye rocks of

Ardven! ye deer! and ye streams ofhe hill!--We shall return no more.Our tombs are distant far.

V

Autumn is dark on the mountains;grey mist rests on the hills. Thewhirlwind is heard on the heath. Darkolls the river through the narrow plain.

A tree stands alone on the hill, andmarks the grave of Connal. The leaveswhirl round with the wind, and strewhe grave of the dead. At times areseen here the ghosts of the deceased,when the musing hunter alone stalksslowly over the heath.

Who can reach the source of thy

ace, O Connal? and who recount thyFathers? Thy family grew like an oakon the mountain, which meeteth thewind with its lofty head. But now its torn from the earth. Who shall supplyhe place of Connal?

Here was the din of arms; andhere the groans of the dying. Mournfulare the wars of Fingal! O Connal!t was here thou didst fall. Thine arm

was like a storm; thy sword, a beam


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of the sky; thy height, a rock on theplain; thine eyes, a furnace of fire.Louder than a storm was thy voice,when thou confoundedst the field. Warriorsell by thy sword, as the thistle byhe staff of a boy.

Dargo the mighty came on, like acloud of thunder. His brows were contracted

and dark. His eyes like twocaves in a rock. Bright rose theirswords on each side; dire was the clangof their steel.

The daughter of Rinval was near;Crimora, bright in the armour of man;her hair loose behind, her bow in herhand. She followed the youth to thewar, Connal her much beloved. Shedrew the string on Dargo; but erring

pierced her Connal. He falls like anoak on the plain; like a rock from theshaggy hill. What shall she do, haplessmaid!--He bleeds; her Connal dies.All the night long she cries, and all theday, O Connal, my love, and myriend! With grief the sad mournerdied.

Earth here incloseth the loveliestpair on the hill. The grass grows betweenhe stones of their tomb; I sit inhe mournful shade. The wind sighshrough the grass; and their memoryushes on my mind. Undisturbed you

now sleep together; in the tomb of themountain you rest alone.

VI

Son of the noble Fingal, Oscian,Prince of men! what tears run downhe cheeks of age? what shades thymighty soul?

Memory, son of Alpin, memorywounds the aged. Of former times aremy thoughts; my thoughts are of thenoble Fingal. The race of the king returnnto my mind, and wound me with

emembrance.


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One day, returned from the sport ofhe mountains, from pursuing the sonsof the hill, we covered this heath withour youth. Fingal the mighty was here,and Oscur, my son, great in war. Fairon our sight from the sea, at once, avirgin came. Her breast was like thesnow of one night. Her cheek like the

bud of the rose. Mild was her blueolling eye: but sorrow was big in her

heart.

Fingal renowned in war! she cries,sons of the king, preserve me! Speak secure,eplies the king, daughter of beauty,

speak: our ear is open to all: ourswords redress the injured. I fly fromUllin, she cries, from Ullin famous inwar. I fly from the embrace of him

who would debase my blood. Cremor,he friend of men, was my father; Cremorhe Prince of Inverne.

Fingal's younger sons arose; Carrylexpert in the bow; Fillan beloved ofhe fair; and Fergus first in the race.-Who from the farthest Lochlyn?

who to the seas of Molochasquir? whodares hurt the maid whom the sons ofFingal guard? Daughter of beauty, restsecure; rest in peace, thou fairest of women.

Far in the blue distance of the deep,some spot appeared like the back of theidge-wave. But soon the ship increased

on our sight. The hand of Ullin drewher to land. The mountains trembledas he moved. The hills shook at hissteps. Dire rattled his armour aroundhim. Death and destruction were in his

eyes. His stature like the roe of Morven.He moved in the lightning ofsteel.

Our warriors fell before him,ke the field before the reapers. Fingal'shree sons he bound. He plungedhis sword into the fair-one's breast.She fell as a wreath of snow before thesun in spring. Her bosom heaved indeath; her soul came forth in blood.

Oscur my son came down; the


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mighty in battle descended. His armourattled as thunder; and the lightning of

his eyes was terrible. There, was theclashing of swords; there, was the voiceof steel. They struck and they thrust;hey digged for death with their swords.But death was distant far, and delayedo come. The sun began to decline;and the cow-herd thought of home.

Then Oscur's keen steel found the heartof Ullin. He fell like a mountain-oakcovered over with glittering frost: Heshone like a rock on the plain.--Herehe daughter of beauty lieth; andhere the bravest of men. Here oneday ended the fair and the valiant.Here rest the pursuer and the pursued.

Son of Alpin! the woes of the agedare many: their tears are for the past.

This raised my sorrow, warriour; memoryawaked my grief. Oscur myson was brave; but Oscur is now nomore. Thou hast heard my grief, Oson of Alpin; forgive the tears of theaged.

VII

Why openest thou afresh the spring ofmy grief, O son of Alpin, inquiringhow Oscur fell? My eyes are blind withears; but memory beams on my heart.How can I relate the mournful death ofhe head of the people! Prince of thewarriours, Oscur my son, shall I see theeno more!

He fell as the moon in a storm; as

he sun from the midst of his course,when clouds rise from the waste of thewaves, when the blackness of the stormnwraps the rocks of Ardannider. I, likean ancient oak on Morven, I moulderalone in my place. The blast hath loppedmy branches away; and I trembleat the wings of the north. Prince ofhe warriors, Oscur my son! shall I seehee no more!

DERMID


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DERMID and Oscur were one: Theyeaped the battle together. Theirriendship was strong as their steel; anddeath walked between them to the field.They came on the foe like two rocksalling from the brows of Ardven. Theirswords were stained with the blood ofhe valiant: warriours fainted at their

names. Who was a match for Oscur,but Dermid? and who for Dermid, butOscur?

THEY killed mighty Dargo in theield; Dargo before invincible. Hisdaughter was fair as the morn; mildas the beam of night. Her eyes, likewo stars in a shower: her breath, thegale of spring: her breasts, as thenew fallen snow floating on the moving heath.

The warriours saw her, and loved; theirsouls were fixed on the maid. Eachoved her, as his fame; each mustpossess her or die. But her soul was fixedon Oscur; my son was the youth ofher love. She forgot the blood of herather; and loved the hand that slewhim.

Son of Oscian, said Dermid, I love;O Oscur, I love this maid. But hersoul cleaveth unto thee; and nothingcan heal Dermid. Here, pierce thisbosom, Oscur; relieve me, my friend,with thy sword.

My sword, son of Morny, shall neverbe stained with the blood of Dermid.

Who then is worthy to slay me, OOscur son of Oscian? Let not my life

pass away unknown. Let none but Oscurslay me. Send me with honour tohe grave, and let my death be renowned.Dermid, make use of thy sword;son of Moray, wield thy steel. Wouldhat I fell with thee! that my deathcame from the hand of Dermid!

They fought by the brook of themountain; by the streams of Branno.Blood tinged the silvery stream, and

crudled round the mossy stones. Dermid


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he graceful fell; fell, and smiled indeath.

And fallest thou, son of Morny;allest, thou by Oscur's hand! Dermidnvincible in war, thus do I see thee fall!-He went, and returned to the maid

whom he loved; returned, but she perceivedhis grief.

Why that gloom, son of Oscian?what shades thy mighty soul?

Though once renowned for the bow,O maid, I have lost my fame. Fixed ona tree by the brook of the hill, is theshield of Gormur the brave, whom inbattle I slew. I have wasted the dayn vain, nor could my arrow pierce it.

Let me try, son Oscian, the skillof Dargo's daughter. My hands wereaught the bow: my father delighted inmy skill.

She went. He stood behind theshield. Her arrow flew and pierced hisbreast[A].

Footnote A: Nothing was held by the ancient Highlanders more essentialo their glory, than to die by the hand of some person worthy or renowned.This was the occasion of Oscur's contriving to be slain by his mistress,now that he was weary of life. In those early times suicide was utterlyunknown among that people, and no traces of it are found in the oldpoetry. Whence the translator suspects the account that follows of thedaughter of Dargo killing herself, to be the interpolation of some laterBard.]

Blessed be that hand of snow; andblessed thy bow of yew! I fall resolvedon death: and who but the daughter of

Dargo was worthy to slay me? Lay men the earth, my fair-one; lay me byhe side of Dermid.

Oscur! I have the blood, the soulof the mighty Dargo. Well pleased Ican meet death. My sorrow I can endhus.--She pierced her white bosomwith steel. She fell; she trembled; anddied.

By the brook of the hill their graves


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are laid; a birch's unequal shade coversheir tomb. Often on their green earthenombs the branchy sons of the mountaineed, when mid-day is all in flames,and silence is over all the hills.

VIII

By the side of a rock on the hill, beneathhe aged trees, old Osciansat on the moss; the last of the race ofFingal. Sightless are his aged eyes;his beard is waving in the wind. Dullhrough the leafless trees he heard thevoice of the north. Sorrow revived inhis soul: he began and lamented thedead.

How hast thou fallen like an oak,with all thy branches round thee! Wheres Fingal the King? where is Oscur myson? where are all my race? Alas! inhe earth they lie. I feel their tombswith my hands. I hear the river belowmurmuring hoarsely over the stones.What dost thou, O river, to me? Thoubringest back the memory of the past.

The race of Fingal stood on thybanks, like a wood in a fertile soil.Keen were their spears of steel. Hardywas he who dared to encounter theirage. Fillan the great was there. Thou

Oscur wert there, my son! Fingal himselfwas there, strong in the grey locksof years. Full rose his sinewy limbs;and wide his shoulders spread. Theunhappy met with his arm, when thepride of his wrath arose.

The son of Morny came; Gaul, theallest of men. He stood on the hill likean oak; his voice was like the streams ofhe hill. Why reigneth alone, he cries,he son of the mighty Corval? Fingal isnot strong to save: he is no support forhe people. I am strong as a storm inhe ocean; as a whirlwind on the hill.Yield, son of Corval; Fingal, yield tome.


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Oscur stood forth to meet him;my son would meet the foe. But Fingalcame in his strength, and smiled athe vaunter's boast. They threw theirarms round each other; they struggledon the plain. The earth is ploughed withheir heels. Their bones crack as the boaton the ocean, when it leaps from wave towave. Long did they toil; with night,

hey fell on the sounding plain; as twooaks, with their branches mingled, fallcrashing from the hill. The tall sonof Morny is bound; the aged overcame.

Fair with her locks of gold, hersmooth neck, and her breasts of snow;air, as the spirits of the hill when atsilent noon they glide along the heath;air, as the rainbow of heaven; cameMinvane the maid. Fingal! She softly

saith, loose me my brother Gaul.Loose me the hope of my race, the terrorof all but Fingal. Can I, replies theKing, can I deny the lovely daughterof the hill? take thy brother, O Minvane,hou fairer than the snow of thenorth!

Such, Fingal! were thy words; buthy words I hear no more. Sightlesssit by thy tomb. I hear the wind inhe wood; but no more I hear myriends. The cry of the hunter is over.The voice of war is ceased.

X

Thou askest, fair daughter of thesles! whose memory is preserved

n these tombs? The memory of Ronnanhe bold, and Connan the chief ofmen; and of her, the fairest of maids,Rivine the lovely and the good. Thewing of time is laden with care. Everymoment hath woes of its own. Whyseek we our grief from afar? or give ourears to those of other times? But thoucommanded, and I obey, O fair daughterof the isles!

Conar was mighty in war. Caul


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was the friend of strangers. His gateswere open to all; midnight darkenednot on his barred door. Both lived uponhe sons of the mountains. Their bowwas the support of the poor.

Connan was the image of Conar'ssoul. Caul was renewed in Ronnan hisson. Rivine the daughter of Conar was

he love of Ronnan; her brother Connanwas his friend. She was fair as theharvest-moon setting in the seas ofMolochasquir. Her soul was settled onRonnan; the youth was the dream of hernights.

Rivine, my love! says Ronnan, I goo my king in Norway[A]. A year anda day shall bring me back. Wilt thoube true to Ronnan?

Footnote A: Supposed to be Fergus II. This fragment is reckoned notaltogether so ancient as most of the rest.]

Ronnan! a year and a day I willspend in sorrow. Ronnan, behave likea man, and my soul shall exult in thyvalour. Connan my friend, says Ronnan,wilt thou preserve Rivine thy sister?Durstan is in love with the maid;and soon shall the sea bring the strangero our coast.

Ronnan, I will defend: Do thousecurely go.--He went. He returnedon his day. But Durstan returnedbefore him.

Give me thy daughter, Conar, saysDurstan; or fear and feel my power.

He who dares attempt my sister, saysConnan, must meet this edge of steel.Unerring in battle is my arm: mysword, as the lightning of heaven.

Ronnan the warriour came; andmuch he threatened Durstan.

But, saith Euran the servant ofgold, Ronnan! by the gate of the northshall Durstan this night carry thy fair-one

away. Accursed, answers Ronnan, be this arm if death meet him not


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here.

Connan! saith Euran, this nightshall the stranger carry thy sister away.My sword shall meet him, replies Connan,and he shall lie low on earth.

The friends met by night, and theyought. Blood and sweat ran down

heir limbs as water on the mossy rock.Connan falls; and cries, O Durstan,be favourable to Rivine!--And is it myriend, cries Ronnan, I have slain? OConnan! I knew thee not.

He went, and he fought with Durstan.Day began to rise on the combat,when fainting they fell, and expired.Rivine came out with the morn;and--O what detains my Ronnan!

-She saw him lying pale in his blood;and her brother lying pale by his side.

What could she say: what could shedo? her complaints were many and vain.She opened this grave for the warriours;and fell into it herself, before itwas closed; like the sun snatched awayn a storm.

Thou hast heard this tale of grief,O fair daughter of the isles! Rivine wasair as thyself: shed on her grave aear.

X

t is night; and I am alone, forlornon the hill of storms. The wind is

heard in the mountain. The torrentshrieks down the rock. No hut receivesme from the rain; forlorn on the hill ofwinds.

Rise, moon! from behind thyclouds; stars of the night, appear!Lead me, some light, to the place wheremy love rests from the toil of the chase!his bow near him, unstrung; his dogspanting around him. But here I must

sit alone, by the rock of the mossy


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stream. The stream and the windoar; nor can I hear the voice of myove.

Why delayeth my Shalgar, why theson of the hill, his promise? Here ishe rock; and the tree; and here theoaring stream. Thou promisedst with

night to be here. Ah! whither is my

Shalgar gone? With thee I would flymy father; with thee, my brother ofpride. Our race have long been foes;but we are not foes, O Shalgar!

Cease a little while, O wind! stream,be thou silent a while! let my voice beheard over the heath; let my wandererhear me. Shalgar! it is I who call. Heres the tree, and the rock. Shalgar, myove! I am here. Why delayest thou

hy coming? Alas! no answer.

Lo! the moon appeareth. Thelood is bright in the vale. The rocksare grey on the face of the hill. Butsee him not on the brow; his dogs

before him tell not that he is coming.Here I must sit alone.

But who are these that lie beyondme on the heath? Are they my loveand my brother?--Speak to me, O myriends! they answer not. My soul isormented with fears.--Ah! they aredead. Their swords are red from theight. O my brother! my brother!why hast thou slain my Shalgar? why,O Shalgar! hast thou slain my brother?Dear were ye both to me! speak to me;hear my voice, sons of my love! Butalas! they are silent; silent for ever!

Cold are their breast of clay!

Oh! from the rock of the hill;rom the top of the mountain of winds,speak ye ghosts of the dead! speak,and I will not be afraid.--Whitherare ye gone to rest? In what cave ofhe hill shall I find you?

sit in my grief. I wait for morningn my tears. Rear the tomb, ye

riends of the dead; but close it not


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ill I come. My life flieth away like adream: why should I stay behind?Here shall I rest with my friends by thestream of the founding rock. Whennight comes on the hill: when the winds up on the heath; my ghost shall standn the wind, and mourn the death ofmy friends. The hunter shall hearrom his booth. He shall fear, but

ove my voice. For sweet shall my voicebe for my friends; for pleasant werehey both to me.

XI

Sad! I am sad indeed: nor small mycause of woe!--Kirmor, thou hastost no son; thou hast lost no daughter

of beauty. Connar the valiant lives;and Annir the fairest of maids. Theboughs of thy family flourish, O Kirmor!but Armyn is the last of hisace.

Rise, winds of autumn, rise; blowupon the dark heath! streams of themountains, roar! howl, ye tempests,n the trees! walk through brokenclouds, O moon! show by intervals thypale face! bring to my mind that sadnight, when all my children fell; whenArindel the mighty fell; when Daurahe lovely died.

Daura, my daughter! thou wertair; fair as the moon on the hills ofJura; white as the driven snow; sweet ashe breathing gale. Armor renowned inwar came, and fought Daura's love; he

was not long denied; fair was the hopeof their friends.

Earch son of Odgal repined; forhis brother was slain by Armor. Hecame disguised like a son of the sea:air was his skiff on the wave; whitehis locks of age; calm his serious brow.Fairest of women, he said, lovely daughterof Armyn! a rock not distant inhe sea, bears a tree on its side; red

shines the fruit afar. There Armor


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waiteth for Daura. I came to fetchhis love. Come, fair daughter of Armyn!

She went; and she called on Armor.Nought answered, but the son of theock. Armor, my love! my love!

why tormentest thou me with fear?come, graceful son of Arduart, come;t is Daura who calleth thee!--Earch

he traitor fled laughing to the land.She lifted up her voice, and cried forher brother and her father. Arindel!Armyn! none to relieve your Daura?

Her voice came over the sea. Arindelmy son descended from the hill;ough in the spoils of the chace. His

arrows rattled by his side; his bow wasn his hand; five grey dogs attendedhis steps. He saw fierce Earch on the

shore; he seized and bound him to anoak. Thick fly the thongs of the hidearound his limbs; he loads the windwith his groans.

Arindel ascends the surgy deep inhis boat, to bring Daura to the land.Armor came in his wrath, and let flyhe grey-feathered shaft. It sung; itsunk in thy heart, O Arindel my son!or Earch the traitor thou diedst. Whats thy grief, O Daura, when roundhy feet is poured thy brother's blood!

The boat is broken in twain by thewaves. Armor plunges into the sea, toescue his Daura or die. Sudden a blastrom the hill comes over the waves.He sunk, and he rose no more.

Alone, on the sea-beat rock, my

daughter was heard to complain. Frequentand loud were her cries; norcould her father relieve her. Allnight I stood on the shore. All night Iheard her cries. Loud was the wind;and the rain beat hard on the side of themountain. Before morning appeared,her voice was weak. It died away, likehe evening-breeze among the grass ofhe rocks. Spent with grief she expired.O lay me soon by her side.


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When the storms of the mountaincome; when the north lifts the waveson high; I sit by the sounding shore,and look on the fatal rock. Often byhe setting moon I see the ghosts ofmy children. Indistinct, they walk inmournful conference together. Willnone of you speak to me?--But theydo not regard their father.

XII

RYNO, ALPIN.

RYNO

The wind and the rain are over:calm is the noon of day. The

clouds are divided in heaven. Overhe green hills flies the inconstant sun.Red through the stony vale comesdown the stream of the hill. Sweet arehy murmurs, O stream! but moresweet is the voice I hear. It is the voiceof Alpin the son of the song, mourningor the dead. Bent is his head of age,and red his tearful eye. Alpin, thouson of the song, why alone on the silenthill? why complainest thou, as ablast in the wood; as a wave on theonely shore?

ALPIN.

My tears, O Ryno! are for the dead;my voice, for the inhabitants of thegrave. Tall thou art on the hill; fairamong the sons of the plain. But thoushalt fall like Morar; and the mourner

shalt sit on thy tomb. The hills shallknow thee no more; thy bow shall lie inhe hall, unstrung.

Thou wert swift, O Morar! as adoe on the hill; terrible as a meteor ofire. Thy wrath was as the storm ofDecember. Thy sword in battle, asghtning in the field. Thy voice waske a stream after rain; like thunder

on distant hills. Many fell by thy

arm; they were consumed in the flames


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of thy wrath.

But when thou returnedst from war,how peaceful was thy brow! Thy facewas like the sun after rain; like themoon in the silence of night; calm ashe breast of the lake when the loudwind is laid.

Narrow is thy dwelling now; darkhe place of thine abode. With threesteps I compass thy grave, O thou whowast so great before! Four stones withheir heads of moss are the only memorialof thee. A tree with scarce a leaf,ong grass which whistles in the wind,mark to the hunter's eye the grave ofhe mighty Morar. Morar! thou artow indeed. Thou hast no mother tomourn thee; no maid with her tears of

ove. Dead is she that brought theeorth. Fallen is the daughter of Morglan.

Who on his staff is this? who is this,whose head is white with age, whoseeyes are red with tears, who quakesat every step?--It is thy father, OMorar! the father of none but thee.He heard of thy fame in battle; he heardof foes dispersed. He heard of Morar'same; why did he not hear of hiswound? Weep, thou father of Morar!weep; but thy son heareth thee not.Deep is the sleep of the dead; low theirpillow of dust. No more shall he hearhy voice; no more shall he awake athy call. When shall it be morn in thegrave, to bid the slumberer awake?

Farewell, thou bravest of men!hou conqueror in the field! but the field

shall see thee no more; nor the darkwood be lightened with the splendor ofhy steel. Thou hast left no son.But the song shall preserve thy name.Future times shall hear of thee; theyshall hear of the fallen Morar.

XIII

Footnote: This is the opening of the epic poem mentioned in the preface.


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The two following fragments are parts of some episodes of the same work.]

Cuchlaid sat by the wall; by theree of the rustling leaf.

Footnote: The aspen or poplar tree]

His spear leaned against the mossy rock.His shield lay by him on the grass.

Whilst he thought on the mighty Carbrewhom he slew in battle, the scout ofhe ocean came, Moran the son of Fithil.

Rise, Cuchulaid, rise! I see the shipsof Garve. Many are the foe, Cuchulaid;many the sons of Lochlyn.

Moran! thou ever tremblest; thyears increase the foe. They are theships of the Desert of hills arrived to assist

Cuchulaid.

saw their chief, says Moran, tall asa rock of ice. His spear is like that fir;his shield like the rising moon. He satupon a rock on the shore, as a greycloud upon the hill. Many, mightyman! I said, many are our heroes;Garve, well art thou named,many are the sons of our king.

Footnote: Garve sigifies a man of great size.]

He answered like a wave on theock; who is like me here? The valiantve not with me; they go to the

earth from my hand. The king of theDesert of hills alone can fight withGarve. Once we wrestled on the hill.Our heels overturned the wood. Rocksell from their place, and rivulets changed

heir course. Three days we stroveogether; heroes stood at a distance,and feared. On the fourth, the Kingsaith that I fell; but Garve saith, hestood. Let Cuchulaid yield to him thats strong as a storm.

No. I will never yield to man.Cuchulaid will conquer or die. Go,Moran, take my spear; strike the shieldof Caithbait which hangs before the

gate. It never rings in peace. My heroes


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shall hear on the hill,--

XIV

DUCHOMMAR, MORNA.

DUCHOMMAR.

Footnote: The signification of the names in this fragment are;Dubhchomar, a black well-shaped man. Muirne or Morna, a woman belovedby all. Cormac-cairbre, an unequalled and rough warriour. Cromleach,a crooked hill. Mugruch, a surly gloomy man. Tarman, thunder. Moinie,soft in temper and person.]

Morna, thou fairest of women,daughter of Cormac-Carbre!why in the circle of stones, in the caveof the rock, alone? The stream murmureth

hoarsely. The blast groanethn the aged tree. The lake is troubledbefore thee. Dark are the clouds ofhe sky. But thou art like snow onhe heath. Thy hair like a thin cloudof gold on the top of Cromleach. Thybreasts like two smooth rocks on the hillwhich is seen from the stream of Brannuin.Thy arms, as two white pillarsn the hall of Fingal.

MORNA.

Whence the son of Mugruch, Duchommarhe most gloomy of men? Darkare thy brows of terror. Red thy rollingeyes. Does Garve appear on thesea? What of the foe, Duchommar?

DUCHOMMAR.

From the hill I return, O Morna,rom the hill of the flying deer. Threehave I slain with my bow; three withmy panting dogs. Daughter of Cormac-Carbre,love thee as my soul. I

have slain a deer for thee. High washis branchy head; and fleet his feet ofwind.

MORNA.

Gloomy son of Mugruch, Duchommar!


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love thee not: hard is thy heartof rock; dark thy terrible brow. ButCadmor the son of Tarman, thou arthe love of Morna! thou art like a sunbeamon the hill, in the day of thegloomy storm. Sawest thou the son ofTarman, lovely on the hill of the chace?Here the daughter of Cormac-Carbrewaiteth the coming of Cadmor.

DUCHOMMAR.

And long shall Morna wait. Hisblood is on my sword. I met him byhe mossy stone, by the oak of the noisystream. He fought; but I slew him;his blood is on my sword. High onhe hill I will raise his tomb, daughterof Cormac-Carbre. But love thou theson of Mugruch; his arm is strong as a

storm.

MORNA.

And is the son of Tarman fallen;he youth with the breast of snow! theirst in the chase of the hill; the foeof the sons of the ocean!--Duchommar,hou art gloomy indeed; cruel ishy arm to me.--But give me thatsword, son of Mugruch; I love theblood of Cadmor.

He gives her the sword, with which she instantly stabs him.]

DUCHOMMAR.

Daughter of Cormac-Carbre, thouhast pierced Duchommar! the sword iscold in my breast; thou hast killed theson of Mugruch. Give me to Moinic

he maid; for much she loved Duchommar.My tomb she will raise on thehill; the hunter shall see it, and praiseme.--But draw the sword from myside, Morna; I feel it cold.--

Upon her coming near him, he stabs her. As she fell, she plucked a stonerom the side of the cave, and placed it betwixt them, that his bloodmight not be mingled with hers.]


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XV

1]Where is Gealchossa my love, thedaughter of Tuathal-Teachvar?left her in the hall of the plain, when Iought with the hairy Ulfadha. Returnsoon, she said, O Lamderg! forhere I wait in sorrow. Her white breaftose with sighs; her cheek was wet

with tears. But she cometh not to meetLamderg; or sooth his soul after battle.Silent is the hall of joy; I hear nothe voice of the singer. Brann doesnot shake his chains at the gate, gladat the coming of his master. Wheres Gealchossa my love, the daughter ofTuathal-Teachvar?

Footnote: The signification of the names in this fragment are;Gealchossack, white-legged. Tuathal-Teachtmhar, the surly, but fortunate

man. Lambhdearg, bloodyhand. Ulfadba, long beard. Fichios, the conquerorof men.]

Lamderg! says Firchios son of Aydon,Gealchossa may be on the hill;she and her chosen maids pursuing thelying deer.

Firchios! no noise I hear. Nosound in the wood of the hill. Nodeer fly in my sight; no panting dogpursueth. I see not Gealchossa myove; fair as the full moon setting onhe hills of Cromleach. Go, Firchios!go to Allad, the grey-haired son ofhe rock. He liveth in the circle ofstones; he may tell of Gealchossa.

Footnote: Allad is plainly a Druid consulted on this occasion.]

Allad! saith Firchios, thou who

dwellest in the rock; thou who tremblestalone; what saw thine eyes ofage?

saw, answered Allad the old, Ullin the son of Carbre: He came like acloud from the hill; he hummed a surlysong as he came, like a storm ineafless wood. He entered the hall ofhe plain. Lamderg, he cried, mostdreadful of men! fight, or yield to Ullin.Lamderg, replied Gealchoffa,

Lamderg is not here: he fights the


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hairy Ulfadha; mighty man, he is nothere. But Lamderg never yields; hewill fight the son of Carbre. Lovely arthou, O daughter of Tuathal-Teachvar!said Ullin. I carry thee to thehouse of Carbre; the valiant shall haveGealchossa. Three days from the topof Cromleach will I call Lamderg toight. The fourth, you belong to Ullin,

f Lamderg die, or fly my sword.

Allad! peace to thy dreams!--foundhe horn, Firchios!--Ullin mayhear, and meet me on the top of Cromleach.

Lamderg rushed on like a storm.On his spear he leaped over rivers. Fewwere his strides up the hill. The rocksly back from his heels; loud crashinghey bound to the plain. His armour,

his buckler rung. He hummed a surlysong, like the noise of the fallingstream. Dark as a cloud he stood above;his arms, like meteors, shone.From the summit of the hill, he rolleda rock. Ullin heard in the hall ofCarbre.--

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889246 fragments of ancient poetry by james macpherson

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