Page images
PDF
EPUB

in battle, for his arm was young. But the soul of the youth was great; the fire of valour burned in his eyes. He saw the disordered steps of his father, and his sigh arose. "King of Croma," he said, "is it because thou hast no son? is it for the weakness of Fovar-gormo's arm that thy sighs arise? I begin, my father, to feel the strength of my arm; I have drawn the sword of my youth; and I have bent the bow. Let me meet this Rothmar, with the youths of Croma: let me meet him, O my father; for I feel my burning soul." "And thou shalt meet him," I said, " son of the sightless Crothar: But let others advance before thee, that I may hear the tread of thy feet at thy return; for my eyes behold thee not, fair-haired Favor-gormo! He went; he met the foe; he fell. The foe advances towards Croma. He who slew my son is near with all his pointed spears."

It is not time to fill the shell, I replied, and took my spear. My people saw the fire of my eyes; and they rose around. All night we strode along the heath. Grey morning rose in the east. A green narrow vale appeared before us; nor did it want its blue stream. The dark host of Rothmar are on its banks, with all their glittering arms. We fought along the vale; they fled; Rothmar sunk beneath my sword. Day had not descended in the west when I brought his arms to Crothar. The aged hero felt them with his hands; and joy brightened in his soul.

The people gather to the hall; the sound of the shells is heard. Ten harps are strung; five bards, advance, and sing by turns the praise of Ossian; they poured

d Those extempore compositions were in great repute among succeeding bards. The pieces extant of that kind show more of the good ear, than of the poetical genius of their authors. The translator has only met with one poem of this sort, which he thinks worthy of being preserved. It is a thousand years later than Ossian, but the authors seem to have observed his manner, and adopted some of his expressions. The story of it is this: Five bards passing the night in the house of a chief, who was a poet himself, went severally to make their observations on, and returned with an extempore description of night. The night happened to be one in October, as appears from the poem; and in the north of Scotland. It has all that variety which the bards ascribe to it in their descriptions.

FIRST BARD.

NIGHT is dull and dark. The clouds rest on the hills. No star with green tremb team: no moon looks from the sky. I hear the blast in the wood; but I hear it tant far. The stream of the valley murmurs; but its murmur is sullen and sad. F the tree at the grave of the dead, the long-howling owl is heard. I see a dim for a

forth their burning souls, and the harp answered to their voice. The joy of Croma was great! for peace return. ed to the land. The night came on with silence, and the morning returned with joy. No foe came in dark

ness, with his glittering spear. The joy of Croma was great; for the gloomy Rothmar fell.

the plain! It is a ghost! It fadesit flies. Some funeral shall pass this way: the meteor marks the path.

The distant dog is howling from the hut of the hill. The stag lies on the mountain moss: the hind is at his side. She hears the wind in his branchy horns. She starts, but lies again.

The roe is in the clift of the rock; the heath-cock's head is beneath his wing. No beast, no bird, is abroad, but the owl and the howling fox. She on a leafless tree: he in a cloud on the hill.

Dark, parting, trembling, sad, the traveller has lost his way. Through shrubs, through thorns, he goes along the gurgling rill. He fears the rock and the fer. He fears the ghost of night. The old tree groans to the blast; the falling branch resounds. The wind drives the withered burs, clung together, along the grass. It is the light tread of a ghost! he trembles amidst the night.

Dark, dusky, howling is night cloudy, dr, and full of ghosts! The dead are abroad! My friends, receive me from the night.

SECOND BARD.

THE wind up. The shower decends. The spirit of the mountain shrieks. Woods fall from high. Windows flap. The growing river roars. The traveller attempts the ford. Hark, that shriek! he dies:-the storin drives the horse from the hill, the goat, the lowing cow. They tremble, as drives the shower beside the mouldering bank. The hunter starts from sleep in his lonely hut; he wakes the fire decayed. His wet dogs smoke around him. He fills the chinks with heath. Loud roar two mountain-streams which meet beside his booth.

Sad, on the side of a hill, the wandering shepherd sits. The tree resounds above hint. The stream roars down the rock. He waits for the rising moon to guide him to his home. Ghosts ride on the storm to-night. Sweet is their voice between the squalls of wind. Their songs are of other worlds. The rain is past. fall from the roof. gloomy and dark.

The dry wind blows. Streams roar, and windows flap. Cold drops
I see the starry sky. But the shower gathers again. The west is
Night is stormy and dismal: receive me, my friends, from night.

THIRD BARD.

THE wind still sounds between the hills; and whistles through the grass of the rock. The firs fall from their place. The turfy hut is torn. The clouds, divided, fly over the sky, and show the burning stars. The meteor, token of death! flies sparkling through the gloom. It rests on the hill, I see the withered fern, the dark-browed rock, the fallen oak. Who is that in his shroud beneath the tree, by the stream?

The waves dark-tumble on the lake, and lash its rocky sides. The boat is brim-full in the cave; the oars on the rocking tide. A maid sits sad beside the rock, and eyes the rolling stream. Her lover promised to come. She saw his boat, when yet it was light on the lake. Is this his broken boat on the shore? Are these his groans on the wind?

Hark! the hail rattles around. The flaky snow descends. The tops of the hills are white. The stormy winds abate. Various is the night and cold; receive me, my friends, from night.

FOURTH BARD.

NIGHT is calm and fair; blue, starry, settled is night. The winds, with the clouds are gone. They sink behind the hill. The moon is up on the mountain. Trees glit ter: streams shine on the rock. Bright rolls the settled lake; bright the stream of the

vale.

I see the trees overturned: the shocks of corn on the plain. The wakeful hind rebuilds the shocks, and whistles on the distant field.

Calm, settled, fair is night! Who comes from the place of the dead? That form in the robe of snow; white arms and dark-brown hair! It is the daughter of the chief of the people; she that lately fell! Come, let us view thee, O maid! thou that hast been The delight of heroes! The blast drives the phantom away; white, without form, it

ends the hill.

I raised my voice for Fovar-gormo, when they laid the chief in earth. The aged Crothar was there, but his sigh was not heard. He searched for the wound of his son, and found it in his breast. Joy rose in the face of the aged. He came and spoke to Ossian.

66

[ocr errors]

King of spears! he said, " my son has not fallen without his fame. The young warrior did not fly; but met death as he went forward in his strength. Happy are they who die in youth, when their renown is heard! The feeble will not behold them in the hall; or smile at their trembling hands. Their memory shall be honoured in the song; the young tear of the virgin falls. But the aged wither away by degrees, and the fame of their youth begins to be forgot. They fall in secret; the sigh of their son is not heard. Joy is around their tomb; and the stone of their fame is placed without a tear. Happy are they who die in youth, when their renown is around them!"

The breezes drive the blue mist, slowly, over the narrow vale. It rises on the hilis and joins its head to heaven. Night is settled, calm, blue, starry, bright with the moon. Receive me not, my friends, for lovely is the night!

FIFTH BARD.

The

NIGHT is calm, but dreary. The moon is in a cloud in the west. Slow moves that pale beam along the shaded hill; the distant wave is heard. The torrent murmurs on the rock. The cock is heard from the booth. More than half the night is past. house-wife groping in the gloom, re-kindles the settled fire. The hunter thinks that day approaches, and calls his bounding dogs. He ascends the hill, and whistles on his way. A blast removes the cloud. He sees the starry plough of the north. Much of the night is to pass; he nods by the mossy rock.

Hark! the whirlwind is in the wood! A low murmur in the vale! It is the mighty army of the dead returning from the air.

The moon rests behind the hill. The beam is still on that lofty rock. Long are the shadows of the trees. Now it is dark over all. Night is dreary, silent, and dark! receive me, my friends, from night.

THE CHIEF.

LET clouds rest on the hills: spirits fly, and travellers fear. Let the winds of the woods arise, the sounding storms descend. Roar streams, and windows flap, and greenwinged meteors fly; rise the pale moon from behind her hills, or inclose her head in clouds; night is alike to me, blue, stormy, or gloomy the sky. Night flies before the beam, when it is poured on the hill. The young day returns from his clouds, but we return no more.

Where are our chiefs of old? Where our kings of mighty name? The fields of their battles are silent. Scarce their mossy tonbs remain. We shall also be forgot. This lofty house shall fall. Our sons shall not behold the ruins in grass. They shall ask of the aged, Where stood the walis of our fathers?"

Raise the song, and strike the harp! send round the shells of joy. Suspend a huudred tapers on high. Youths and maids begin the dance Let some grey hard be near me, to tell the deeds of other times; of kings renowned in our land, of chiefs we be hold no more. Thus let the night pass, until morning shall appear in our halls. Then let the bow be at hand, the dogs, the youths of the chase. Who shall ascend the hill with day, and awake the deer.

A POEM.

The Argument.

Fingal, in his voyage to Lochlin, whither he had been invited by Starno the father of Agandecca, touched at Berrathon, an island of Scandinavia, where he was kindly entertained by Larthmor the petty king of the place, who was a vassal of the supreme kings of Lochlin. The hospitality of Larthmor gained him Fingal's friendship, which that hero manifested after the imprisonment of Larthmor by his own son; by sending Ossian and Toscar, the father of Malvina, so often mentioned, to rescue Larthmor, and to punish the unnatural behaviour of Uthal. Uthal was handsome, and much admired by the ladies. Nina-thoma the beautiful daughter of Torthoma, a neighbouring prince, fell in love and fled with him He proved inconstant; for an. other lady, whose name is not mentioned, gaining his affections, he confined Ninathoma to a desart island near the coast of Benrathon. She was relieved by Ossian, who, in company with Toscar, landing on Berrathon, defeated the forces of Utha, and killed him in a single combat. Nina-thoma, whose love not all the bad behaviour of Uthal could erase, hearing of his death, died of grief. In the mean time, Larthmor is restored, and Ossian and Toscar returned in triumph to Fingal. The present poem opens with an elegy on the death of Malvina, the daughter of Toscar, and closes with presages of the poet's death.

BEND thy blue course, O stream, round the narrow plain of Lutha". Let the green woods hang over it from their mountains: and the sun look on it at noon. The thistle is there on its rock, and shakes its beard to the wind. The flower hangs its heavy head, waving, at times to the gale. “Why dost thou awake me, 0 gale?" it seems to say; "I am covered with the drops of heaven. The time of my fading is near, and the blast that shall scatter my leaves. To-morrow shall the traveller come, he that saw me in my beauty shall come: his eyes will search the field, but they will not find me so shall they search in vain for the voice of Cona, after it has failed in the field. The hunter shali come forth in the morning, and the voice of my harp shall not be heard. "Where is the son of car-borne Fingal? The tear will be on his cheek. Then come thou, O Malvina", with all thy music, come; lay Os

a Lutha, swift stream.'

b Mal-mhina, soft or lovely brow.' Mh in the Gaelic language has the same sound with V in English.

sian in the plain of Lutha: let his tomb rise in the lovely field.

Malvina where art thou with thy songs, with the soft sound of thy step? Son of Alpin art thou near? where is the daughter of Toscar? "I passed, O son of Fingal, by Tarlutha's mossy walls. The smoke of the hall was ceased: silence was among the trees of the hill. The voice of the chase was over. I saw the daughters of the bow. I asked about Malvina, but they answered not. They turned their faces away: thin darkness covered their beauty. They were like stars on a rainy hill, by night, each looking faintly through her mist."

Pleasant be thy rest, O lovely beam! soon hast thou set on our hills! The steps of thy departure were stately, like the moon on the blue-trembling wave. But thou hast left us in darkness, first of the maids of Lutha We sit at the rock, and there is no voice; no light but the meteor of fire! Soon hast thou set, Malvina, daughter of generous Toscar! But thou risest like the beam of the east, among the spirits of thy friends, where they sit in their stormy halls, the chambers of the thunder. A cloud hovers over Cona: its blue-curling sides are high. The winds are beneath it, with their wings; within it is the dwelling of Fingal. There the hero sits in darkness; his airy spear is in his hand. His shield, half-covered with clouds, is like the darkened moon, when one half still remains in the wave, and the other looks sickly on the field.

His friends sit around the king, on mist; and hear the songs of Ullin: he strikes the half viewless harp; and raises the feeble voice. The lesser heroes, with a thousand meteors, light the airy hall. Malvina rises in the midst; a blush is on her cheek.

She beholds

e Tradition has not handed down the name of this son of Alpin. His father was one of Fingal's principal bards, and he appears himself to have had a poetical genius.

Ossian speaks. He calls Malvina a beam of light, and continues the metaphor throughout the paragraph.

The description of this ideal palace of Fingal is very poetical, and agreeable to the notions of those times, concerning the state of the deceased, who were supposed to pursue, after death, the pleasures and employments of their former life. The situation of Ossian's heroes, in their separate state, if not entirely happy, is more agreeable than the notions of the ancient Greeks concerning their departed heroes, See Hom. Ody 1. 11.

VOL. II.

H

« PreviousContinue »