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The Project Gutenberg EBook of Fragments Of Ancient Poetry, by James MacPherson

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Title: Fragments Of Ancient PoetryAuthor: James MacPherson

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FRAGMENTS OF ANCIENT POETRY

by JAMES MACPHERSON

THE AUGUSTAN REPRINT SOCIETY

Introduction by JOHN J. DUNN


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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

INTRODUCTION

Byron was actually the third Scotsman in about fifty years whoawoke and found himself famous; the sudden rise from obscurity to

international 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 earlynineteenth century it would not have seemed so odd. In fact, asyoung men both Scott and Byron would have probably have beenflattered 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 imitation


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of 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 tofame, and concomitantly the start of a controversy that is uniquein literary history. For the half-century that followed, the bodyof poetry that was eventually collected as _The Poems of Ossian_ provoked the comment of nearly every important man of letters.Extravagance and partisanship were characteristic of most of theremarks, 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 manyreaders of the day daring, original, and passionate. Even MalcolmLaing, whose ardor in exposing Macpherson's imposture exceededthat of Dr. Johnson, responded to the literary quality of the poems.In a note on the fourth and fifth "Fragments" the arch prosecutorof Macpherson commented,

"From a singular coincidence of circumstances, it was inthis house, where I now write, that I first read the poemsin my early youth, with an ardent credulity that remainedunshaken for many years of my life; and with a pleasureto which even the triumphant satisfaction of detecting the

imposture is comparatively nothing. The enthusiasm withwhich I read and studied the poems, enabled me afterwards,when my suspicions were once awakened, to trace and exposethe deception with greater success. Yet, notwithstandingthe severity of minute criticism, I can still peruse themas a wild and wonderful assemblage of imitation with whichthe fancy is often pleased and gratified, even when thejudgment condemns them most."[2]

II

It was John Home, famous on both sides of the Tweed as theauthor of _Douglas_, who first encouraged Macpherson to undertakehis translations. While taking the waters at Moffat in the fall of1759, he was pleased to meet a young Highland tutor, who was notonly familiar with ancient Gaelic poetry but who had in his possessionseveral such poems. Home, like nearly all of the Edinburghliterati, knew no Gaelic and asked Macpherson to translateone of them. The younger man at first protested that a translation"would give a very imperfect idea of the original," but Home "withsome difficulty" persuaded him to try. In a "day or two" Macphersonbrought him the poem that was to become "Fragment VII" inthis collection; Home was so much pleased with it that he requestedadditional translations.[3]

"Jupiter" Carlyle, whose autobiography reflects the keen interestthat 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 possibleit should be published to the world."[4]

When Home left Moffat he took his find to Edinburgh and showed


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the 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,recently appointed professor of natural history at the Universityof 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 Dalrymple(later Lord Hailes) were soon apprised of the discovery andjoined in the chorus of approbation that emanated from the Scottishcapitol.

Blair became the spokesman and the leader for the Edinburghliterati, and for the next forty years he lavished his energy in praisingand defending Macpherson's work. The translations came tohim at the time that he was writing his lectures on _belles lettres_ and was thus in the process of formulating his theories on the originsof poetry and the nature of the sublime. Blair lost no time incommunicating 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 much

conversation 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 publicas 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 tothe 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 aboutHighland poetry or its traditions. It is apparent from the Preface then,that 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 thereluctant "translator" of a few "fragments" to the projector of afull-length epic "if enough encouragement were given for such anundertaking."

Since Blair became famous for his _Critical Dissertation on the

Poems of Ossian_ (London, 1763), it may seem strange that in thePreface 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.


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III

Part of the appeal of the _Fragments_ was obviously based onthe presumption that they were, as Blair hastened to assure thereader, "genuine remains of ancient Scottish poetry," and thereforeprovided 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 wasthe case with Hume, Walpole, and Boswell, but many of the admirersof 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, that I writ into Scotland to make a thousand enquiries.... The whole external evidence would make one believe these fragments (for so he calls them, tho' nothing can be more entire) counterfeit: but the internal is so strong on the other side, that I am resolved to believe them genuine

spite of the Devil & the Kirk."Gray concluded his remarks with the assertion that "this Man isthe 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 thoughhe 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 every

hope that Macpherson's Ossian might prove the translationof a series of poems complete in themselves; but while theimposture is discovered, the merit of the work remains undisputed,though not without faults--particularly, in some parts, turgidand bombastic diction."[9]

In 1819 Hazlitt felt that Ossian is "a feeling and a name thatcan never be destroyed in the minds of his readers," and he classedthe 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,it would be another instance of mutability, another blank

made, another void left in the heart, another confirmation ofthat 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 that"those who have doubted my veracity have paid a compliment tomy genius."[11] By examining briefly the distinctive form of the"Fragments," their diction, their setting, their tone, and theirstructure, we may sense something of the qualities of the poemsthat made them attractive to such men as Gray, Byron, and Hazlitt.


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IV

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 greatlyto 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 hadtalents and industry to perform that very arduous task upon a greatscale. This small publication drew the attention of the literaryworld to a new species of poetry."[12]

For his new species of poetry Macpherson drew upon the stylistictechniques 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:

_repetition_, 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 areboth common in the _Fragments_, but a few examples may be useful.I have rearranged the following lines and in the other passages relatingto the structure of the poems in order to call attention tothe 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")


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

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")

The poems also have a discernible rhythmical pattern; thetendency of the lines to form pairs is obvious enough when thereis semantic or grammatical parallelism, but there is a general binarypattern throughout. Typically, the first unit is a simple sentence,the 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,three, 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 ofthe boldest innovators, Blake and Coleridge, were admirers ofMacpherson's work.

Macpherson's diction must have also appealed to the growingtaste for poetry that was less ornate and studied. His practicewas to use a large number of concrete monosyllabic words of Anglo-Saxon

origin to describe objects and forces common to rural life.A simple listing of the common nouns from the opening of "FragmentI" 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 listingfrom "A Slumber Did My Spirit Seal" would be this: _slumber,spirit, fears, thing, touch, years, motion, force, course, rocks,stones, trees_.


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

"Ossian's strange exotic wildness and his obscure, terrible glimpsesof scenery were in essence something quite new.... Ossian's images werefar 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 muchthe 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 contributedtoward converting Britons, nay, Europeans, into enthusiastic admirersof nature in her wilder moments."[14]

Ghosts are habitually present in the poems, and Macphersonis 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 sofamiliar, 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 "genuinepart 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 uniquelyin 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 heroesfelt was grief, the emotion that permeates the _Fragments_ and the

rest of Macpherson's work. It was the exquisite sensibility ofMacpherson'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 sheis mentioned in society! And then if I am even askedhow I like her--Like! I hate that word like death. Whatsort 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 thatthe 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 gavethem an aura of sincerity and honesty. The poems are fragmentaryin 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."


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V

The _Fragments_ proved an immediate success and Macpherson'sEdinburgh patrons moved swiftly to raise enough money to enablethe young Highlander to resign his position as tutor and to devotehimself to collecting and translating the Gaelic poetry still extantin the Highlands. Blair recalled that he and Lord Elibank were instrumentalin 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 andtranslating the heroic poem mentioned in the preface."

Macpherson, a frugal man, included many of the "Fragments"in his later work. Sometimes he introduced them into the notes asbeing later than Ossian but in the same spirit; at other times heintroduced them as episodes in the longer narratives. With the exception

of 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 revolutionaryin its day, we can be sure that we are dealing with somethingcloser to cultural artifact than to art, and it must be grantedthat this is true of Macpherson's work; nevertheless, the fact thatOssian aroused the interest of major men of letters for fifty yearsis 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 of Sir 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 the Highland Society of Scotland_ (Edinburgh, 1805), Appendix, pp. 68-69.

[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 its initial separate publication, Blair's dissertation was regularly included with the collected poems.

[8] _Correspondence of Thomas Gray_, ed. Paget Toynbee and Leonard


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Whibley (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. Alexander Allardyce (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.

17 _Report_, Appendix, p. 58.

18 See Robert M. Schmitz, _Hugh Blair_ (New York, 1948), p. 48.

FRAGMENTS OF ANCIENT POETRY

Collected in the Highlands of Scotland,

AND

Translated from the Galic or Erse Language

"Vos quoque qui fortes animas, belloque peremtasLaudibus 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, refersthem 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 inthe same language two or three centuries ago. They were certainly


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composed before the establishment of clanship in the northern part ofScotland, which is itself very ancient; for had clans been then formedand 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 thetranslator has seen, a Culdee or Monk is represented as desirous to takedown in writing from the mouth of Oscian, who is the principal personagein several of the following fragments, his warlike atchievements andthose 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 inIreland and the north of Scotland. Every chief or great man had in hisfamily a Bard or poet, whose office it was to record in verse, theillustrious actions of that family. By the succession of these Bards, suchpoems were handed down from race to race; some in manuscript, but more byoral tradition. And tradition, in a country so free of intermixture withforeigners, and among a people so strongly attached to the memory of theirancestors, has preserved many of them in a great measure incorrupted tothis day.

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. Letthe public judge, and pronounce. It is believed, that, by a carefulinquiry, 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 an

undertaking. The subject is, an invasion of Ireland by Swarthan King ofLochlyn; which is the name of Denmark in the Erse language. Cuchulaid,the General or Chief of the Irish tribes, upon intelligence of theinvasion, assembles his forces. Councils are held; and battles fought.But after several unsuccescful engagements, the Irish are forced tosubmit. 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 poemis 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.


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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 tothrow confiderable light upon the Scottish and Irish antiquities.

FRAGMENT

I

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 inthe wind. Whether by the fount ofthe rock, or by the stream of themountain thou liest; when the rushes arenodding with the wind, and the mistis flying over thee, let me approach

my love unperceived, and see himfrom the rock. Lovely I saw theefirst by the aged oak; thou wert returningtall from the chace; the fairestamong thy friends.

SHILRIC.

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

dogs attend me no more. No moreI tread the hill. No more from onhigh 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. Thedeer are seen on the brow; void offear they graze along. No more they

dread the wind; no more the rustlingtree. The hunter is far removed;he is in the field of graves. Strangers!sons of the waves! spare mylovely Shilric.

SHILRIC.

If fall I must in the field, raise highmy grave, Vinvela. Grey stones, and


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heaped-up earth, shall murk me to futuretimes. When the hunter shall sit bythe mound, and produce his food atnoon, "some warrior rests here," hewill say; and my fame shall live in hispraise. Remember me, Vinvela, whenlow 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. ThereI will see where often thou sattest returningfrom the chace. Indeed, my Shilricwill fall; but I will rememberhim.

II

I sit by the mossy fountain; on thetop of the hill of winds. One tree isrustling above me. Dark waves rollover 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 mythoughts as I sit alone. Didst thoubut appear, O my love, a wanderer onthe heath! thy hair floating on thewind behind thee; thy bosom heavingon the sight; thine eyes full of tears

for thy friends, whom the mist of thehill had concealed! Thee I would comfort,my love, and bring thee to thyfather'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 breezein the reeds of the pool. Hark!

Returnest thou safe from the war?

"Where are thy friends, my love? Iheard 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?


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Alone I am, O Shilric! alone in thewinter-house. With grief for thee Iexpired. 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!fair thou wast, when alive!

By the mossy fountain I will sit; onthe top of the hill of winds. Whenmid-day is silent around, converse, Omy love, with me! come on the wingsof the gale! on the blast of the mountain,come! Let me hear thy voice, asthou passest, when mid-day is silent around.

III

Evening is grey on the hills. Thenorth wind resounds through the

woods. White clouds rise on the sky: thetrembling 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 theroaring winds he lifts his voice of woe.

Tossed on the wavy ocean is He,the hope of the isles; Malcolm, thesupport of the poor; foe to the proudin arms! Why hast thou left us behind?why live we to mourn thy fate? We

might have heard, with thee, the voiceof the deep; have seen the oozy rock.

Sad on the sea-beat shore thy spouselooketh for thy return. The time ofthy promise is come; the night is gatheringaround. But no white sail ison the sea; no voice is heard exceptthe 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 on

the desert rock? Why, ye waves, didye roll over him?

But, Oh! what voice is that?Who rides on that meteor of fire! Greenare his airy limbs. It is he! it is theghost of Malcolm!--Rest, lovely soul,rest on the rock; and let me hear thyvoice!--He is gone, like a dream ofthe night. I see him through the trees.


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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 inthe deep, unhappy daughter of Reynold!

I 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 preservethe praise of him, the hope of theisles.

IV

CONNAL, CRIMORA,

CRIMORA.

Who cometh from the hill, like

a cloud tinged with the beamof the west? Whose voice is that, loudas the wind, but pleasant as the harp ofCarryl? 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 fromthe chace, like a stream of light. Thesun was on their shields: In a line they

descended the hill. Loud is the voice ofthe youth; the war, my love, is near.To-morrow the enormous Dargo comesto 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 ofDargo!

CONNAL.

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

CRIMORA.

That shield I bring, O Connal; but


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

CONNAL.

Fall indeed I may: But raise mytomb, Crimora. Some stones, a moundof earth, shall keep my memory.Though fair thou art, my love, as thelight; more pleasant than the gale ofthe hill; yet I will not stay. Raise mytomb, Crimora.

CRIMORA,

Then give me those arms of light;that sword, and that spear of steel. Ishall meet Dargo with thee, and aid mylovely Connal. Farewell, ye rocks ofArdven! ye deer! and ye streams ofthe 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. Darkrolls 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 strewthe 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 thyrace, O Connal? and who recount thyFathers? Thy family grew like an oakon the mountain, which meeteth thewind with its lofty head. But now itis torn from the earth. Who shall supplythe place of Connal?

Here was the din of arms; andhere the groans of the dying. Mournful

are the wars of Fingal! O Connal!it was here thou didst fall. Thine armwas like a storm; thy sword, a beamof 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. Warriorsfell by thy sword, as the thistle bythe staff of a boy.


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Dargo the mighty came on, like acloud of thunder. His brows were contractedand 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 erringpierced 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 myfriend! With grief the sad mournerdied.

Earth here incloseth the loveliestpair on the hill. The grass grows between

the stones of their tomb; I sit inthe mournful shade. The wind sighsthrough the grass; and their memoryrushes on my mind. Undisturbed younow sleep together; in the tomb of themountain you rest alone.

VI

Son of the noble Fingal, Oscian,Prince of men! what tears run down

the 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 returninto my mind, and wound me withremembrance.

One day, returned from the sport ofthe mountains, from pursuing the sonsof the hill, we covered this heath with

our 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 thebud of the rose. Mild was her bluerolling eye: but sorrow was big in herheart.

Fingal renowned in war! she cries,


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sons of the king, preserve me! Speak secure,replies 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 himwho would debase my blood. Cremor,the friend of men, was my father; Cremorthe Prince of Inverne.

Fingal's younger sons arose; Carrylexpert in the bow; Fillan beloved ofthe 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 theridge-wave. But soon the ship increasedon our sight. The hand of Ullin drewher to land. The mountains trembled

as he moved. The hills shook at hissteps. Dire rattled his armour aroundhim. Death and destruction were in hiseyes. His stature like the roe of Morven.He moved in the lightning ofsteel.

Our warriors fell before him,like the field before the reapers. Fingal'sthree 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 in

death; her soul came forth in blood.Oscur my son came down; themighty in battle descended. His armourrattled as thunder; and the lightning ofhis eyes was terrible. There, was theclashing of swords; there, was the voiceof steel. They struck and they thrust;they digged for death with their swords.But death was distant far, and delayedto 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-oak

covered over with glittering frost: Heshone like a rock on the plain.--Herethe 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; memory


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awaked 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 withtears; but memory beams on my heart.How can I relate the mournful death ofthe head of the people! Prince of thewarriours, Oscur my son, shall I see theeno more!

He fell as the moon in a storm; asthe sun from the midst of his course,when clouds rise from the waste of thewaves, when the blackness of the storminwraps the rocks of Ardannider. I, like

an ancient oak on Morven, I moulderalone in my place. The blast hath loppedmy branches away; and I trembleat the wings of the north. Prince ofthe warriors, Oscur my son! shall I seethee no more!

DERMID

DERMID and Oscur were one: Theyreaped the battle together. Theirfriendship was strong as their steel; anddeath walked between them to the field.

They came on the foe like two rocksfalling from the brows of Ardven. Theirswords were stained with the blood ofthe valiant: warriours fainted at theirnames. Who was a match for Oscur,but Dermid? and who for Dermid, butOscur?

THEY killed mighty Dargo in thefield; Dargo before invincible. Hisdaughter was fair as the morn; mildas the beam of night. Her eyes, liketwo stars in a shower: her breath, the

gale 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. Eachloved 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 herfather; and loved the hand that slewhim.


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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 lifepass away unknown. Let none but Oscurslay me. Send me with honour tothe grave, and let my death be renowned.Dermid, make use of thy sword;son of Moray, wield thy steel. Wouldthat 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. Dermidthe graceful fell; fell, and smiled indeath.

And fallest thou, son of Morny;fallest, thou by Oscur's hand! Dermidinvincible in war, thus do I see thee fall!--He went, and returned to the maidwhom 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 dayin vain, nor could my arrow pierce it.

Let me try, son Oscian, the skillof Dargo's daughter. My hands weretaught 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 essentialto 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 the


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daughter 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 ofDargo was worthy to slay me? Lay mein the earth, my fair-one; lay me bythe side of Dermid.

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

By the brook of the hill their gravesare laid; a birch's unequal shade coverstheir tomb. Often on their green earthentombs the branchy sons of the mountainfeed, when mid-day is all in flames,and silence is over all the hills.

VIII

By the side of a rock on the hill, beneaththe 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. Dullthrough 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! Whereis Fingal the King? where is Oscur myson? where are all my race? Alas! inthe 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 theirrage. Fillan the great was there. ThouOscur 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.


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

Oscur stood forth to meet him;my son would meet the foe. But Fingalcame in his strength, and smiled atthe vaunter's boast. They threw theirarms round each other; they struggledon the plain. The earth is ploughed withtheir heels. Their bones crack as the boaton the ocean, when it leaps from wave towave. Long did they toil; with night,they 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;fair, as the spirits of the hill when atsilent noon they glide along the heath;fair, as the rainbow of heaven; cameMinvane the maid. Fingal! She softlysaith, 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,thou fairer than the snow of the

north!Such, Fingal! were thy words; butthy words I hear no more. SightlessI sit by thy tomb. I hear the wind inthe wood; but no more I hear myfriends. The cry of the hunter is over.The voice of war is ceased.

IX

Thou askest, fair daughter of theisles! whose memory is preservedin these tombs? The memory of Ronnanthe 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 ourtears to those of other times? But thou


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commanded, and I obey, O fair daughterof the isles!

Conar was mighty in war. Caulwas the friend of strangers. His gateswere open to all; midnight darkenednot on his barred door. Both lived uponthe 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 wasthe 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 goto 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 strangerto 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-oneaway. Accursed, answers Ronnan, be this arm if death meet him notthere.

Connan! saith Euran, this night


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my 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. Hereis the tree, and the rock. Shalgar, mylove! I am here. Why delayest thouthy coming? Alas! no answer.

Lo! the moon appeareth. Theflood is bright in the vale. The rocksare grey on the face of the hill. ButI see him not on the brow; his dogsbefore 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 myfriends! they answer not. My soul istormented with fears.--Ah! they are

dead. Their swords are red from thefight. 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;from the top of the mountain of winds,speak ye ghosts of the dead! speak,and I will not be afraid.--Whither

are ye gone to rest? In what cave ofthe hill shall I find you?

I sit in my grief. I wait for morningin my tears. Rear the tomb, yefriends of the dead; but close it nottill 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 windis up on the heath; my ghost shall standin the wind, and mourn the death of

my friends. The hunter shall hearfrom his booth. He shall fear, butlove my voice. For sweet shall my voicebe for my friends; for pleasant werethey both to me.

XI


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Sad! I am sad indeed: nor small mycause of woe!--Kirmor, thou hastlost no son; thou hast lost no daughterof beauty. Connar the valiant lives;and Annir the fairest of maids. Theboughs of thy family flourish, O Kirmor!but Armyn is the last of hisrace.

Rise, winds of autumn, rise; blowupon the dark heath! streams of themountains, roar! howl, ye tempests,in 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 Daurathe lovely died.

Daura, my daughter! thou wertfair; fair as the moon on the hills ofJura; white as the driven snow; sweet asthe 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:fair 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 inthe sea, bears a tree on its side; redshines the fruit afar. There Armorwaiteth for Daura. I came to fetch

his love. Come, fair daughter of Armyn!She went; and she called on Armor.Nought answered, but the son of therock. Armor, my love! my love!why tormentest thou me with fear?come, graceful son of Arduart, come;it is Daura who calleth thee!--Earchthe 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;rough in the spoils of the chace. Hisarrows rattled by his side; his bow wasin his hand; five grey dogs attendedhis steps. He saw fierce Earch on theshore; he seized and bound him to anoak. Thick fly the thongs of the hidearound his limbs; he loads the windwith his groans.


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

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

Alone, on the sea-beat rock, mydaughter 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, likethe evening-breeze among the grass ofthe rocks. Spent with grief she expired.O lay me soon by her side.

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 bythe setting moon I see the ghosts ofmy children. Indistinct, they walk inmournful conference together. Willnone of you speak to me?--But they

do not regard their father.

XII

RYNO, ALPIN.

RYNO

The wind and the rain are over:calm is the noon of day. Theclouds are divided in heaven. Over

the green hills flies the inconstant sun.Red through the stony vale comesdown the stream of the hill. Sweet arethy murmurs, O stream! but moresweet is the voice I hear. It is the voiceof Alpin the son of the song, mourningfor 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 a


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blast in the wood; as a wave on thelonely 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 mournershalt sit on thy tomb. The hills shallknow thee no more; thy bow shall lie inthe hall, unstrung.

Thou wert swift, O Morar! as adoe on the hill; terrible as a meteor offire. Thy wrath was as the storm ofDecember. Thy sword in battle, aslightning in the field. Thy voice waslike a stream after rain; like thunderon distant hills. Many fell by thyarm; they were consumed in the flamesof 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 asthe breast of the lake when the loudwind is laid.

Narrow is thy dwelling now; darkthe place of thine abode. With threesteps I compass thy grave, O thou whowast so great before! Four stones withtheir heads of moss are the only memorialof thee. A tree with scarce a leaf,

long grass which whistles in the wind,mark to the hunter's eye the grave ofthe mighty Morar. Morar! thou artlow indeed. Thou hast no mother tomourn thee; no maid with her tears oflove. Dead is she that brought theeforth. 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'sfame; 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 hearthy voice; no more shall he awake atthy call. When shall it be morn in thegrave, to bid the slumberer awake?


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Farewell, thou bravest of men!thou conqueror in the field! but the fieldshall see thee no more; nor the darkwood be lightened with the splendor ofthy 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.The two following fragments are parts of some episodes of the same work.]

Cuchlaid sat by the wall; by thetree 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 ofthe 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; thyfears increase the foe. They are theships of the Desert of hills arrived to assistCuchulaid.

I 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 therock; who is like me here? The valiant

live not with me; they go to theearth from my hand. The king of theDesert of hills alone can fight withGarve. Once we wrestled on the hill.Our heels overturned the wood. Rocksfell from their place, and rivulets changedtheir course. Three days we strovetogether; heroes stood at a distance,and feared. On the fourth, the Kingsaith that I fell; but Garve saith, he


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stood. Let Cuchulaid yield to him thatis 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 thegate. It never rings in peace. My heroesshall 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 murmurethhoarsely. The blast groanethin the aged tree. The lake is troubledbefore thee. Dark are the clouds ofthe sky. But thou art like snow onthe 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 pillars

in the hall of Fingal.MORNA.

Whence the son of Mugruch, Duchommarthe 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,

from the hill of the flying deer. Threehave I slain with my bow; three withmy panting dogs. Daughter of Cormac-Carbre,I love thee as my soul. Ihave slain a deer for thee. High washis branchy head; and fleet his feet ofwind.

MORNA.


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Gloomy son of Mugruch, Duchommar!I love thee not: hard is thy heartof rock; dark thy terrible brow. ButCadmor the son of Tarman, thou artthe 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 bythe mossy stone, by the oak of the noisystream. He fought; but I slew him;his blood is on my sword. High onthe hill I will raise his tomb, daughterof Cormac-Carbre. But love thou theson of Mugruch; his arm is strong as astorm.

MORNA.

And is the son of Tarman fallen;the youth with the breast of snow! thefirst in the chase of the hill; the foeof the sons of the ocean!--Duchommar,thou art gloomy indeed; cruel isthy 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 Moinicthe 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 stonefrom the side of the cave, and placed it betwixt them, that his blood

might not be mingled with hers.]

XV

[1]Where is Gealchossa my love, thedaughter of Tuathal-Teachvar?I left her in the hall of the plain, when Ifought with the hairy Ulfadha. Return


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soon, she said, O Lamderg! forhere I wait in sorrow. Her white breaftrose with sighs; her cheek was wetwith tears. But she cometh not to meetLamderg; or sooth his soul after battle.Silent is the hall of joy; I hear notthe voice of the singer. Brann doesnot shake his chains at the gate, gladat the coming of his master. Whereis 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 fortunateman. 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 theflying deer.

Firchios! no noise I hear. Nosound in the wood of the hill. No

deer fly in my sight; no panting dogpursueth. I see not Gealchossa mylove; fair as the full moon setting onthe hills of Cromleach. Go, Firchios!go to Allad, the grey-haired son ofthe 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 whodwellest in the rock; thou who tremblestalone; what saw thine eyes of

age?I 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 inleafless wood. He entered the hall ofthe plain. Lamderg, he cried, mostdreadful of men! fight, or yield to Ullin.Lamderg, replied Gealchoffa,Lamderg is not here: he fights thehairy Ulfadha; mighty man, he is nothere. But Lamderg never yields; hewill fight the son of Carbre. Lovely art

thou, 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 tofight. The fourth, you belong to Ullin,if Lamderg die, or fly my sword.

Allad! peace to thy dreams!--foundthe horn, Firchios!--Ullin may


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