{"collection":"myth-cosmogony","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_8161/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_8161","id":"gutenberg_8161","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/8161","summary":null,"tags":["Bards and bardism -- Poetry","Category: British Literature","Category: Mythology, Legends & Folklore","Category: Poetry","Celts -- Poetry","Literary forgeries and mystifications -- Early works to 1800","Mythology, Celtic -- Ireland -- Poetry","Ossian, active 3rd century -- Poetry"],"text":"Produced by David Starner, Ted Garvin, and the Online\nDistributed Proofreading Team\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nFRAGMENTS OF ANCIENT POETRY\n\nBy James Macpherson\n\n\nThe Augustan Reprint Society\n\n\nIntroduction By John J. Dunn\n\n\n\nGENERAL EDITORS\n\nGeorge Robert Guffey, University of California, Los Angeles\n\nEarl Miner, University of California, Los Angeles\n\nMaximillian E. Novak, University of California, Los Angeles\n\nRobert Vosper,  William Andrews Clark Memorial Library\n\n\n\nADVISORY EDITORS\n\nRichard C. Boys, University of Michigan\n\nJames L. Clifford, Columbia University\n\nRalph Cohen, University of California, Los Angeles\n\nVinton A. Dearing, University of California, Los Angeles\n\nArthur Friedman, University of Chicago\n\nLouis A. Landa, Princeton University\n\nSamuel H. Monk, University of Minnesota\n\nEverett T. Moore, University of California, Los Angeles\n\nLawrence Clark Powell, William Andrews Clark Memorial Library\n\nJames Sutherland, University College, London\n\nH. T. Swedenberg, Jr., University of California, Los Angeles\n\n\n\nCORRESPONDING SECRETARY\n\nEdna C. Davis, William Andrews Clark Memorial Library\n\n\n\n\nINTRODUCTION\n\nByron was actually the third Scotsman in about fifty years who\nawoke and found himself famous; the sudden rise from obscurity to\ninternational fame had been experienced earlier by two fellow\ncountrymen, Sir Walter Scott and James Macpherson. Considering the\ngreatness of the reputation of the two younger writers, it may seem\nstrange to link their names with Macpherson's, but in the early\nnineteenth century it would not have seemed so odd. In fact, as\nyoung men both Scott and Byron would have probably have been\nflattered by such an association. Scott tells us that in his youth\nhe \"devoured rather than perused\" Ossian and that he could repeat\nwhole duans \"without remorse\"; and, as I shall discuss later,\nByron paid Macpherson the high compliment of writing an imitation\nof Ossian, which he published in _Hours of Idleness_.\n\nThe publication of the modest and anonymous pamphlet, _Fragments\nof Ancient Poetry_ marks the beginning of Macpherson's rise to\nfame, and concomitantly the start of a controversy that is unique\nin literary history. For the half-century that followed, the body\nof poetry that was eventually collected as _The Poems of Ossian_\nprovoked the comment of nearly every important man of letters.\nExtravagance and partisanship were characteristic of most of the\nremarks, but few literary men were indifferent.\n\nThe intensity and duration of the controversy are indicative\nof how seriously Macpherson's work was taken, for it was to many\nreaders of the day daring, original, and passionate. Even Malcolm\nLaing, whose ardor in exposing Macpherson's imposture exceeded\nthat of Dr. Johnson, responded to the literary quality of the poems.\nIn a note on the fourth and fifth \"Fragments\" the arch prosecutor\nof Macpherson commented,\n\n\"From a singular coincidence of circumstances, it was in\nthis house, where I now write, that I first read the poems\nin my early youth, with an ardent credulity that remained\nunshaken for many years of my life; and with a pleasure\nto which even the triumphant satisfaction of detecting the\nimposture is comparatively nothing. The enthusiasm with\nwhich I read and studied the poems, enabled me afterwards,\nwhen my suspicions were once awakened, to trace and expose\nthe deception with greater success. Yet, notwithstanding\nthe severity of minute criticism, I can still peruse them\nas a wild and wonderful assemblage of imitation with which\nthe fancy is often pleased and gratified, even when the\njudgment condemns them most.\"[2]\n\n\n\nII\n\nIt was John Home, famous on both sides of the Tweed as the\nauthor of _Douglas_, who first encouraged Macpherson to undertake\nhis translations. While taking the waters at Moffat in the fall of\n1759, he was pleased to meet a young Highland tutor, who was not\nonly familiar with ancient Gaelic poetry but who had in his possession\nseveral such poems. Home, like nearly all of the Edinburgh\nliterati, knew no Gaelic and asked Macpherson to translate\none of them. The younger man at first protested that a translation\n\"would give a very imperfect idea of the original,\" but Home \"with\nsome difficulty\" persuaded him to try. In a \"day or two\" Macpherson\nbrought him the poem that was to become \"Fragment VII\" in\nthis collection; Home was so much pleased with it that he requested\nadditional translations.[3]\n\n\"Jupiter\" Carlyle, whose autobiography reflects the keen interest\nthat he took in literature, arrived at Moffat after Home had\nseen the \"translations.\"  Home, he found, \"had been highly delighted\nwith them,\" and when Carlyle read them he \"was perfectly\nastonished at the poetical genius\" that they displayed. They\nagreed that \"it was a precious discovery, and that as soon as possible\nit should be published to the world.\"[4]\n\nWhen Home left Moffat he took his find to Edinburgh and showed\nthe translations to the men who earned the city Smollett's sobriquet,\na \"hotbed of genius\": Robertson, fresh from the considerable success\nof his two volume _History of Scotland_ (1759); Robert Fergusson,\nrecently appointed professor of natural history at the University\nof Edinburgh; Lord Elibank, a learned aristocrat, who had\nbeen patron to Home and Robertson; and Hugh Blair, famous for the\nsermons that he delivered as rector of the High Church of St. Giles.\nHome was gratified that these men were \"no less pleased\" with\nMacpherson's work than he had been. David Hume and David Dalrymple\n(later Lord Hailes) were soon apprised of the discovery and\njoined in the chorus of approbation that emanated from the Scottish\ncapitol.\n\nBlair became the spokesman and the leader for the Edinburgh\nliterati, and for the next forty years he lavished his energy in praising\nand defending Macpherson's work. The translations came to\nhim at the time that he was writing his lectures on _belles lettres_\nand was thus in the process of formulating his theories on the origins\nof poetry and the nature of the sublime. Blair lost no time in\ncommunicating with Macpherson:\n\n\"I being as much struck as Mr Home with the high spirit of poetry\nwhich breathed in them, presently made inquiry where Mr. Macpherson\nwas to be found; and having sent for him to come to me, had much\nconversation with him on the subject.\"[5]\n\nMacpherson told Blair that there were \"greater and more considerable\npoems of the same strain\" still extant in the Highlands; Blair like\nHome was eager for more, but Macpherson again declined to translate them.\nHe said that he felt himself inadequate to render \"the spirit and force\"\nof the originals and that \"they would be very ill relished by the public\nas so very different from the strain of modern ideas, and of modern,\nconnected, and polished poetry.\" This whetted Blair's interest even more,\nand after \"repeated importunity\" he persuaded Macpherson to translate\nmore fragments. The result was the present volume, which Blair saw to\nthe press and for which he wrote the Preface \"in consequence of the\nconversations\" that he had with Macpherson.[6]\n\nMost of Blair's Preface does seem to be based on information supplied\nby Macpherson, for Blair had almost no first-hand knowledge about\nHighland poetry or its traditions. It is apparent from the Preface then,\nthat Macpherson had not yet decided to ascribe the poems to a single\npoet; Ossian is one of the principal poets in the collection but the\nwhole is merely ascribed \"to the bards\" (see pp. v-vi). It is also\nevident from the Preface that Macpherson was shifting from the\nreluctant \"translator\" of a few \"fragments\" to the projector of a\nfull-length epic \"if enough encouragement were given for such an\nundertaking.\"\n\nSince Blair became famous for his _Critical Dissertation on the\nPoems of Ossian_ (London, 1763), it may seem strange that in the\nPreface to the _Fragments_ he declined to say anything of the \"poetical\nmerit\" of the collection. The frank adulation of the longer\nessay, which concludes with the brave assertion that Ossian may\nbe placed \"among those whose works are to last for ages,\"[7]  was\npartially a reflection of the enthusiasm that greeted each of\nMacpherson's successive publications.\n\n\n\nIII\n\nPart of the appeal of the _Fragments_ was obviously based on\nthe presumption that they were, as Blair hastened to assure the\nreader, \"genuine remains of ancient Scottish poetry,\" and therefore\nprovided a remarkable insight into a remote, primitive culture; here\nwere maidens and warriors who lived in antiquity on the harsh,\nwind-swept wastes of the Highlands, but they were capable of\nhighly refined and sensitive expressions of grief--they were the\nnoblest savages of them all. For some readers the rumors of imposture\nserved to dampen their initial enthusiasm, and such was\nthe case with Hume, Walpole, and Boswell, but many of the admirers\nof the poems found them rapturous, authentic or not.\n\nAfter Gray had read several of the \"Fragments\" in manuscript\nhe wrote to Thomas Warton that he had \"gone mad about them\"; he\nadded,\n\n  \"I was so struck, so _extasi\u00e9_ with their infinite beauty, that\n  I writ into Scotland to make a thousand enquiries....\n  The whole external evidence would make one believe\n  these fragments (for so he calls them, tho' nothing can\n  be more entire) counterfeit:  but the internal is so strong\n  on the other side, that I am resolved to believe them genuine\n  spite of the Devil & the Kirk.\"\n\nGray concluded his remarks with the assertion that \"this Man is\nthe very Demon of Poetry, or he has lighted on a treasure hid for\nages.\"[8]\n\nNearly fifty years later Byron wrote a \"humble imitation\" of\nOssian for the admirers of Macpherson's work and presented it as\nevidence of his \"attachment to their favorite author,\" even though\nhe was aware of the imposture. In a note to \"The Death of Calmar\nand Orla,\" he commented,\n\n\"I fear Laing's late edition has completely overthrown every\nhope that Macpherson's Ossian might prove the translation\nof a series of poems complete in themselves; but while the\nimposture is discovered, the merit of the work remains undisputed,\nthough not without faults--particularly, in some parts, turgid\nand bombastic diction.\"[9]\n\nIn 1819 Hazlitt felt that Ossian is \"a feeling and a name that\ncan never be destroyed in the minds of his readers,\" and he classed\nthe work as one of the four prototypes of poetry along with the Bible,\nHomer, and Dante. On the question of authenticity he observed,\n\n\"If it were indeed possible to shew that this writer was nothing,\nit would be another instance of mutability, another blank\nmade, another void left in the heart, another confirmation of\nthat feeling which makes him so often complain, 'Roll on, ye\ndark brown years, ye bring no joy on your wing to Ossian!'\"[10]\n\nThere is some justice in Macpherson's wry assertion that\n\"those who have doubted my veracity have paid a compliment to\nmy genius.\"[11] By examining briefly the distinctive form of the\n\"Fragments,\" their diction, their setting, their tone, and their\nstructure, we may sense something of the qualities of the poems\nthat made them attractive to such men as Gray, Byron, and Hazlitt.\n\n\n\nIV\n\nPerhaps Macpherson's most important innovation was to cast\nhis work into what his contemporaries called \"measured prose,\"\nand it was recognized early that this new form contributed greatly\nto their appeal. In discussing the _Fragments_, Ramsey of Ochtertyre\ncommented,\n\n\"Nothing could be more happy or judicious than his translating in\nmeasured prose; for had he attempted it in verse, much of the spirit\nof the original would have evaporated, supposing him to have had\ntalents and industry to perform that very arduous task upon a great\nscale. This small publication drew the attention of the literary\nworld to a new species of poetry.\"[12]\n\nFor his new species of poetry Macpherson drew upon the stylistic\ntechniques of the King James Version of the Bible, just as Blake\nand Whitman were to do later. As Bishop Lowth was the first to\npoint out, parallelism is the basic structural technique.\nMacpherson incorporated two principal forms of parallelism in his poems:\n_repetition_, a pattern in which the second line nearly restates the\nsense of the first, and _completion_ in which the second line picks\nup part of the sense of the first line and adds to it. These are\nboth common in the _Fragments_, but a few examples may be useful.\nI have rearranged the following lines and in the other passages relating\nto the structure of the poems in order to call attention to\nthe binary quality of Macpherson's verse:\n\n_Repetition_\n\n   Who can reach the source of thy race, O Connal?\n   And who recount thy Fathers? (\"Fragment V\")\n\n\n   Oscur my son came down;\n   The mighty in battle descended. (\"Fragment VI\")\n\n\n   Oscur stood forth to meet him;\n   My son would meet the foe. (\"Fragment VIII\")\n\n\n   Future times shall hear of thee;\n   They shall hear of the fallen Morar. (\"Fragment XII\")\n\n\n_Completion_\n\n   What voice is that I hear?\n   That voice like the summer wind. (\"Fragment I\")\n\n     The warriours saw her, and loved;\n     Their souls were fixed on the maid.\n     Each loved her, as his fame;\n     Each must possess her or die.\n     But her soul was fixed on Oscur;\n     My son was the youth of her love.      (\"Fragment VII\")\n\nMacpherson also used grammatical parallelism as a structural device; a\nseries of simple sentences is often used to describe a landscape:\n\n     Autumn is dark on the mountains;\n     Grey mist rests on the hills.\n     The whirlwind is heard on the heath.\n     Dark rolls the river through the narrow plain.   (\"Fragment V\")\n\nThe poems also have a discernible rhythmical pattern; the\ntendency of the lines to form pairs is obvious enough when there\nis semantic or grammatical parallelism, but there is a general binary\npattern throughout. Typically, the first unit is a simple sentence,\nthe second almost any grammatical structure--an appositive,\na prepositional phrase, a participle, the second element of a compound\nverb, a dependent clause. A simile--in grammatical terms,\nan adverbial phrase--sometimes constitutes the second element.\nThese pairs are often balanced roughly by the presence of two,\nthree, or four accents in each constituent; there are a large number\nof imbedded iambic and anapestic feet, which give the rhythm an\nascending quality:\n\n  The da/ughter of R/inval was n/ear;\n\n  Crim/ora, br/ight in the arm/our of m/an;\n\n  Her ha/ir loose beh/ind,\n\n  Her b/ow in her h/and.\n\n  She f/ollowed the y/outh to w/ar,\n\n  Co/nnal her m/uch bel/oved.\n\n  She dr/ew the st/ring on D/argo;\n\n  But e/rring pi/erced her C/onnal.      (\"Fragment V\")\n\nAs E. H. W. Meyerstein pointed out, \"Macpherson can, without\nextravagance, be regarded as the main originator (after the translators\nof the Authorized Version) of what's known as 'free verse.\"[13]\nMacpherson's work certainly served to stimulate prosodic experimentation\nduring the next half century; it is certainly no coincidence that two of\nthe boldest innovators, Blake and Coleridge, were admirers of\nMacpherson's work.\n\nMacpherson's diction must have also appealed to the growing\ntaste for poetry that was less ornate and studied. His practice\nwas to use a large number of concrete monosyllabic words of Anglo-Saxon\norigin to describe objects and forces common to rural life.\nA simple listing of the common nouns from the opening of \"Fragment\nI\" will serve to illustrate this tendency: _love, son, hill,\ndeer, dogs, bow-string, wind, stream, rushes, mist, oak, friends_.\nSuch diction bears an obvious kinship to what was to become the\nstaple diction of the romantic lyric; for example, a similar listing\nfrom \"A Slumber Did My Spirit Seal\" would be this: _slumber,\nspirit, fears, thing, touch, years, motion, force, course, rocks,\nstones, trees_.\n\nThe untamed power of Macpherson's wild natural settings is\nalso striking. Samuel H. Monk has made the point well:\n\n\"Ossian's strange exotic wildness and his obscure, terrible glimpses\nof scenery were in essence something quite new.... Ossian's images were\nfar from \"nature methodized.\" His imagination illumined fitfully a scene\nof mountains and blasted heaths, as artificially wild as his heroines\nwere artificially sensitive; to modern readers they resemble too much\nthe stage-settings of melodrama. But in 1760, his descriptions carried\nwith them the thrill of the genuine and of na\u00efvely archaic.\"\n\nAnd Monk adds, \"imperceptibly the Ossianic poems contributed\ntoward converting Britons, nay, Europeans, into enthusiastic admirers\nof nature in her wilder moments.\"[14]\n\nGhosts are habitually present in the poems, and Macpherson\nis able to present them convincingly because they are described\nby a poet who treats them as though they were part of his and his\naudience's habitual experience. The supernatural world is so\nfamiliar, in fact, that it can be used to describe the natural; thus\nMinvane in \"Fragment VII\" is called as fair \"as the spirits of the\nhill when at silent noon they glide along the heath.\" As Patricia\nM. Spacks has observed, the supernatural seems to be a \"genuine\npart of the poetic texture\"; and she adds that\n\n\"within this poetic context, the supernatural seems convincing\nbecause believed in: it is part of the fabric of life for the\ncharacters of the poem. Ghosts in the Ossianic poems, almost uniquely\nin the mid-eighteenth century, seem genuinely to belong; to this\nparticular poetic conception the supernatural does not seem\nextraneous.\"[15]\n\nThe _Fragments_ was also a cause and a reflection of the rising\nappeal of the hero of sensibility, whose principal characteristic\nwas that he could feel more intensely than the mass of humanity.\nThe most common emotion that these acutely empathetic heroes\nfelt was grief, the emotion that permeates the _Fragments_ and the\nrest of Macpherson's work. It was the exquisite sensibility of\nMacpherson's heroes and heroines that the young Goethe was\nstruck by; Werther, an Ossianic hero in his own way, comments,\n\n\"You should see what a silly figure I cut when she\nis mentioned in society! And then if I am even asked\nhow I like her--Like! I hate that word like death. What\nsort of person must that be who likes Lotte, in whom all\nsenses, all emotions are not completely filled up by her!\nLike! Recently someone asked me how I like Ossian!\"[16]\n\nThat Macpherson chose to call his poems \"fragments\" is indicative\nof another quality that made them unusual in their day.\nThe poems have a spontaneity that is suggested by the fact that\nthe poets seem to be creating their songs as the direct reflection\nof an emotional experience. In contrast to the image of the poet\nas the orderer, the craftsman, the poets of the _Fragments_ have a\nkind of artlessness (to us a very studied one, to be sure) that gave\nthem an aura of sincerity and honesty. The poems are fragmentary\nin the sense that they do not follow any orderly, rational plan but\nseem to take the form that corresponds to the development of an\nemotional experience. As Macpherson told Blair they are very\ndifferent from \"modern, connected, and polished poetry.\"\n\n\n\nV\n\nThe _Fragments_ proved an immediate success and Macpherson's\nEdinburgh patrons moved swiftly to raise enough money to enable\nthe young Highlander to resign his position as tutor and to devote\nhimself to collecting and translating the Gaelic poetry still extant\nin the Highlands. Blair recalled that he and Lord Elibank were instrumental\nin convening a dinner meeting that was attended by \"many of the first\npersons of rank and taste in Edinburgh,\" including Robertson, Home, and\nFergusson.[17] Robert Chalmers acted as treasurer; among the forty odd\nsubscribers who contributed 60\u00a3, were James Boswell and David Hume.[18]\nBy the time of the second edition of the _Fragments_ (also in 1760),\nBlair, or more likely Macpherson himself, could inform the public in the\n\"Advertisement\" \"that measures are now taken for making a full collection\nof the remaining Scottish bards; in particular, for recovering and\ntranslating the heroic poem mentioned in the preface.\"\n\nMacpherson, a frugal man, included many of the \"Fragments\"\nin his later work. Sometimes he introduced them into the notes as\nbeing later than Ossian but in the same spirit; at other times he\nintroduced them as episodes in the longer narratives. With the exception\nof Laing's edition, they are not set off, however, and anyone\nwho wishes to see what caused the initial Ossianic fervor\nmust consult the original volume.\n\nWhen we have to remind ourselves that a work of art was revolutionary\nin its day, we can be sure that we are dealing with something\ncloser to cultural artifact than to art, and it must be granted\nthat this is true of Macpherson's work; nevertheless, the fact that\nOssian aroused the interest of major men of letters for fifty years\nis suggestive of his importance as an innovator. In a curious way,\nMacpherson's achievement has been overshadowed by the fact that\nmany greater writers followed him and developed the artistic\ndirection that he was among the first to take.\n\n\n\n\nNOTES TO THE INTRODUCTION\n\n\n[Footnote 1: See Scott's letter to Anna Seward in J. G. Lockhart, _Memoirs of\n    Sir Walter Scott_ (London, 1900), I, 410-15.]\n\n[Footnote 2: _The Poems of Ossian_, ed. Malcolm Laing (Edinburgh, 1805), I, 441.]\n\n[Footnote 3: See Home's letter to Mackenzie in the _Report of the Committee of the\n    Highland Society of Scotland_ (Edinburgh, 1805), Appendix, pp. 68-69.]\n\n[Footnote 4: Carlyle to Mackenzie, _ibid_., p. 66.]\n\n[Footnote 5: Blair to Mackenzie, _ibid_., p. 57.]\n\n[Footnote 6: _Ibid_., p. 58.]\n\n[Footnote 7: Quoted from _The Poems of Ossian_ (London, 1807), I, 222.   After its\n    initial separate publication, Blair's dissertation was regularly\n    included with the collected poems.]\n\n[Footnote 8: _Correspondence of Thomas Gray_, ed. Paget Toynbee and Leonard\n    Whibley (Oxford, 1935), II, 679-80.]\n\n[Footnote 9: _The Works of Lord Byron, Poetry_, ed. Ernest Hartley Coleridge\n    (London, 1898), I, 183.]\n\n[Footnote 10: \"On Poetry in General,\" _The Complete Works of William Hazlitt_, ed.\n     P. P. Howe (London, 1930), V, 18.]\n\n[Footnote 11: Quoted in Henry Grey Graham, _Scottish Men of Letters in the\n     Eighteenth Century_ (London, 1908), p. 240.]\n\n[Footnote 12: _Scotland and Scotsmen in the Eighteenth Century_, ed. Alexander\n     Allardyce (Edinburgh, 1888), I, 547.]\n\n[Footnote 13: \"The Influence of Ossian,\" _English_, VII (1948), 96.]\n\n[Footnote 14: _The Sublime_ (Ann Arbor, 1960), p. 126.]\n\n[Footnote 15: _The Insistence of Horror_ (Cambridge, Mass., 1962), pp. 86-87.]\n\n[Footnote 16: _The Sufferings of Young Werther_, trans. Bayard Morgan (New York,\n     1957), p. 51.]\n\n[Footnote 17: _Report_, Appendix, p. 58.]\n\n[Footnote 18: See Robert M. Schmitz, _Hugh Blair_ (New York, 1948), p. 48.]\n\n\n\n\n\nFRAGMENTS OF ANCIENT POETRY\n\nCollected in the Highlands of Scotland,\n\nand\n\nTranslated from the Galic or Erse Language\n\n\n\n   \"Vos quoque qui fortes animas, belloque peremtas\n   Laudibus in longum vates dimittitis aevuin,\n   Plurima securi fudistis carmina _Bardi_.\"\n\n\n\n\nLUCAN\n\n\n\n\nPREFACE\n\nThe public may depend on the following fragments as genuine remains of\nancient Scottish poetry. The date of their composition cannot be exactly\nascertained. Tradition, in the country where they were written, refers\nthem to an \u00e6ra of the most remote antiquity: and this tradition is\nsupported by the spirit and strain of the poems themselves; which abound\nwith those ideas, and paint those manners, that belong to the most early\nstate of society. The diction too, in the original, is very obsolete;\nand differs widely from the style of such poems as have been written in\nthe same language two or three centuries ago. They were certainly\ncomposed before the establishment of clanship in the northern part of\nScotland, which is itself very ancient; for had clans been then formed\nand known, they must have made a considerable figure in the work of a\nHighland Bard; whereas there is not the least mention of them in these\npoems. It is remarkable that there are found in them no allusions to the\nChristian religion or worship; indeed, few traces of religion of any kind.\nOne circumstance seems to prove them to be coeval with the very infancy\nof Christianity in Scotland. In a fragment of the same poems, which the\ntranslator has seen, a Culdee or Monk is represented as desirous to take\ndown in writing from the mouth of Oscian, who is the principal personage\nin several of the following fragments, his warlike atchievements and\nthose of his family. But Oscian treats the monk and his religion with\ndisdain, telling him, that the deeds of such great men were subjects too\nhigh to be recorded by him, or by any of his religion: A full proof that\nChristianity was not as yet established in the country.\n\nThough the poems now published appear as detached pieces in this\ncollection, there is ground to believe that most of them were originally\nepisodes of a greater work which related to the wars of Fingal.\nConcerning this hero innumerable traditions remain, to this day, in the\nHighlands of Scotland. The story of Oscian, his son, is so generally\nknown, that to describe one in whom the race of a great family ends, it\nhas passed into a proverb; \"Oscian the last of the heroes.\"\n\nThere can be no doubt that these poems are to be ascribed to the Bards;\na race of men well known to have continued throughout many ages in\nIreland and the north of Scotland. Every chief or great man had in his\nfamily a Bard or poet, whose office it was to record in verse, the\nillustrious actions of that family. By the succession of these Bards, such\npoems were handed down from race to race; some in manuscript, but more by\noral tradition. And tradition, in a country so free of intermixture with\nforeigners, and among a people so strongly attached to the memory of their\nancestors, has preserved many of them in a great measure incorrupted to\nthis day.\n\nThey are not set to music, nor sung. The verification in the original is\nsimple; and to such as understand the language, very smooth and beautiful;\nRhyme is seldom used: but the cadence, and the length of the line varied,\nso as to suit the sense. The translation is extremely literal. Even the\narrangement of the words in the original has been imitated; to which must\nbe imputed some inversions in the style, that otherwise would not have\nbeen chosen.\n\nOf the poetical merit of these fragments nothing shall here be said. Let\nthe public judge, and pronounce. It is believed, that, by a careful\ninquiry, many more remains of ancient genius, no less valuable than those\nnow given to the world, might be found in the same country where these\nhave been collected. In particular there is reason to hope that one work\nof considerable length, and which deserves to be styled an heroic poem,\nmight be recovered and translated, if encouragement were given to such an\nundertaking. The subject is, an invasion of Ireland by Swarthan King of\nLochlyn; which is the name of Denmark in the Erse language. Cuchulaid,\nthe General or Chief of the Irish tribes, upon intelligence of the\ninvasion, assembles his forces. Councils are held; and battles fought.\nBut after several unsuccescful engagements, the Irish are forced to\nsubmit. At length, Fingal King of Scotland, called in this poem, \"The\nDesert of the hills,\" arrives with his ships to assist Cuchulaid. He\nexpels the Danes from the country; and returns home victorious. This poem\nis held to be of greater antiquity than any of the rest that are preserved.\nAnd the author speaks of himself as present in the expedition of Fingal.\nThe three last poems in the collection are fragments which the translator\nobtained of this epic poem; and though very imperfect, they were judged not\nunworthy of being inserted. If the whole were recovered, it might serve to\nthrow confiderable light upon the Scottish and Irish antiquities.\n\n\n\n\nFRAGMENT\n\n   I\n\n   SHILRIC, VINVELA.\n\n   VINVELA\n\n   My love is a son of the hill.\n   He pursues the flying deer.\n   His grey dogs are panting\n   around him; his bow-string sounds in\n   the wind. Whether by the fount of\n   the rock, or by the stream of the\n   mountain thou liest; when the rushes are\n   nodding with the wind, and the mist\n   is flying over thee, let me approach\n   my love unperceived, and see him\n   from the rock. Lovely I saw thee\n   first by the aged oak; thou wert returning\n   tall from the chace; the fairest\n   among thy friends.\n\n   SHILRIC.\n\n   What voice is that I hear? that\n   voice like the summer-wind.--I sit\n   not by the nodding rushes; I hear not\n   the fount of the rock. Afar, Vinvela,\n   afar I go to the wars of Fingal. My\n   dogs attend me no more. No more\n   I tread the hill. No more from on\n   high I see thee, fair-moving by the\n   stream of the plain; bright as the\n   bow of heaven; as the moon on the\n   western wave.\n\n   VINVELA.\n\n   Then thou art gone, O Shilric!\n   and I am alone on the hill. The\n   deer are seen on the brow; void of\n   fear they graze along. No more they\n   dread the wind; no more the rustling\n   tree. The hunter is far removed;\n   he is in the field of graves. Strangers!\n   sons of the waves! spare my\n   lovely Shilric.\n\n   SHILRIC.\n\n   If fall I must in the field, raise high\n   my grave, Vinvela. Grey stones, and\n   heaped-up earth, shall mark me to future\n   times. When the hunter shall sit by\n   the mound, and produce his food at\n   noon, \"some warrior rests here,\" he\n   will say; and my fame shall live in his\n   praise. Remember me, Vinvela, when\n   low on earth I lie!\n\n   VINVELA.\n\n   Yes!--I will remember thee--indeed\n   my Shilric will fall. What shall I do,\n   my love! when thou art gone for ever?\n   Through these hills I will go at noon: O\n   will go through the silent heath. There\n   I will see where often thou sattest returning\n   from the chace. Indeed, my Shilric\n   will fall; but I will remember\n   him.\n\n\n\n   II\n\n   I sit by the mossy fountain; on the\n   top of the hill of winds. One tree is\n   rustling above me. Dark waves roll\n   over the heath. The lake is troubled\n   below. The deer descend from the\n   hill. No hunter at a distance is seen;\n   no whistling cow-herd is nigh. It is\n   mid-day: but all is silent. Sad are my\n   thoughts as I sit alone. Didst thou\n   but appear, O my love, a wanderer on\n   the heath! thy hair floating on the\n   wind behind thee; thy bosom heaving\n   on the sight; thine eyes full of tears\n   for thy friends, whom the mist of the\n   hill had concealed! Thee I would comfort,\n   my love, and bring thee to thy\n   father's house.\n\n   But is it she that there appears, like\n   a beam of light on the heath? bright\n   as the moon in autumn, as the sun in\n   a summer-storm?--She speaks: but\n   how weak her voice! like the breeze\n   in the reeds of the pool. Hark!\n\n   Returnest thou safe from the war?\n   \"Where are thy friends, my love? I\n   heard of thy death on the hill; I heard\n   and mourned thee, Shilric!\"\n\n   Yes, my fair, I return; but I alone\n   of my race. Thou shalt see them no\n   more: their graves I raised on the plain.\n   But why art thou on the desert hill?\n   why on the heath, alone?\n\n   Alone I am, O Shilric! alone in the\n   winter-house. With grief for thee I\n   expired. Shilric, I am pale in the tomb.\n\n   She fleets, she sails away; as grey\n   mist before the wind!--and, wilt thou\n   not stay, my love? Stay and behold\n   my tears? fair thou appearest, my love!\n   fair thou wast, when alive!\n\n   By the mossy fountain I will sit; on\n   the top of the hill of winds. When\n   mid-day is silent around, converse, O\n   my love, with me! come on the wings\n   of the gale! on the blast of the mountain,\n   come! Let me hear thy voice, as\n   thou passest, when mid-day is silent around.\n\n\n\n   III\n\n   Evening is grey on the hills. The\n   north wind resounds through the\n   woods. White clouds rise on the sky: the\n   trembling snow descends. The river howls\n   afar, along its winding course. Sad,\n   by a hollow rock, the grey-hair'd Carryl\n   sat. Dry fern waves over his head; his\n   seat is in an aged birch. Clear to the\n   roaring winds he lifts his voice of woe.\n\n   Tossed on the wavy ocean is He,\n   the hope of the isles; Malcolm, the\n   support of the poor; foe to the proud\n   in arms! Why hast thou left us behind?\n   why live we to mourn thy fate? We\n   might have heard, with thee, the voice\n   of the deep; have seen the oozy rock.\n\n   Sad on the sea-beat shore thy spouse\n   looketh for thy return. The time of\n   thy promise is come; the night is gathering\n   around. But no white sail is\n   on the sea; no voice is heard except\n   the blustering winds. Low is the soul\n   of the war! Wet are the locks of youth!\n   By the foot of some rock thou liest;\n   washed by the waves as they come.\n   Why, ye winds, did ye bear him on\n   the desert rock? Why, ye waves, did\n   ye roll over him?\n\n   But, Oh! what voice is that?\n   Who rides on that meteor of fire! Green\n   are his airy limbs. It is he! it is the\n   ghost of Malcolm!--Rest, lovely soul,\n   rest on the rock; and let me hear thy\n   voice!--He is gone, like a dream of\n   the night. I see him through the trees.\n   Daughter of Reynold! he is gone.\n   Thy spouse shall return no more. No\n   more shall his hounds come from the\n   hill, forerunners of their master. No\n   more from the distant rock shall his\n   voice greet thine ear. Silent is he in\n   the deep, unhappy daughter of Reynold!\n\n   I will sit by the stream of the plain.\n   Ye rocks! hang over my head. Hear\n   my voice, ye trees! as ye bend on the\n   shaggy hill. My voice shall preserve\n   the praise of him, the hope of the\n   isles.\n\n\n\n   IV\n\n   CONNAL,  CRIMORA,\n\n   CRIMORA.\n\n   Who cometh from the hill, like\n   a cloud tinged with the beam\n   of the west? Whose voice is that, loud\n   as the wind, but pleasant as the harp of\n   Carryl? It is my love in the light of\n   steel; but sad is his darkened brow.\n   Live the mighty race of Fingal? or\n   what disturbs my Connal?\n\n   CONNAL.\n\n   They live. I saw them return from\n   the chace, like a stream of light. The\n   sun was on their shields: In a line they\n   descended the hill. Loud is the voice of\n   the youth; the war, my love, is near.\n   To-morrow the enormous Dargo comes\n   to try the force of our race. The race of\n   Fingal he defies; the race of battle and\n   wounds.\n\n   CRIMORA.\n   Connal, I saw his sails like grey mist\n   on the sable wave. They came to land.\n   Connnal, many are the warriors of\n   Dargo!\n\n   CONNAL.\n\n   Bring me thy father's shield; the iron\n   shield of Rinval; that shield like the\n   full moon when it is darkened in the\n   sky.\n\n   CRIMORA.\n\n   That shield I bring, O Connal; but\n   it did not defend my father. By the\n   spear of Gauror he fell. Thou mayst\n   fall, O Connal!\n\n   CONNAL.\n\n   Fall indeed I may: But raise my\n   tomb, Crimora. Some stones, a mound\n   of earth, shall keep my memory.\n   Though fair thou art, my love, as the\n   light; more pleasant than the gale of\n   the hill; yet I will not stay. Raise my\n   tomb, Crimora.\n\n   CRIMORA,\n\n   Then give me those arms of light;\n   that sword, and that spear of steel. I\n   shall meet Dargo with thee, and aid my\n   lovely Connal. Farewell, ye rocks of\n   Ardven! ye deer! and ye streams of\n   the hill!--We shall return no more.\n   Our tombs are distant far.\n\n\n\n   V\n\n   Autumn is dark on the mountains;\n   grey mist rests on the hills. The\n   whirlwind is heard on the heath. Dark\n   rolls the river through the narrow plain.\n   A tree stands alone on the hill, and\n   marks the grave of Connal. The leaves\n   whirl round with the wind, and strew\n   the grave of the dead. At times are\n   seen here the ghosts of the deceased,\n   when the musing hunter alone stalks\n   slowly over the heath.\n\n   Who can reach the source of thy\n   race, O Connal? and who recount thy\n   Fathers? Thy family grew like an oak\n   on the mountain, which meeteth the\n   wind with its lofty head. But now it\n   is torn from the earth. Who shall supply\n   the place of Connal?\n\n   Here was the din of arms; and\n   here the groans of the dying. Mournful\n   are the wars of Fingal! O Connal!\n   it was here thou didst fall. Thine arm\n   was like a storm; thy sword, a beam\n   of the sky; thy height, a rock on the\n   plain; thine eyes, a furnace of fire.\n   Louder than a storm was thy voice,\n   when thou confoundedst the field. Warriors\n   fell by thy sword, as the thistle by\n   the staff of a boy.\n\n   Dargo the mighty came on, like a\n   cloud of thunder. His brows were contracted\n   and dark. His eyes like two\n   caves in a rock. Bright rose their\n   swords on each side; dire was the clang\n   of their steel.\n\n   The daughter of Rinval was near;\n   Crimora, bright in the armour of man;\n   her hair loose behind, her bow in her\n   hand. She followed the youth to the\n   war, Connal her much beloved. She\n   drew the string on Dargo; but erring\n   pierced her Connal. He falls like an\n   oak on the plain; like a rock from the\n   shaggy hill. What shall she do, hapless\n   maid!--He bleeds; her Connal dies.\n   All the night long she cries, and all the\n   day, O Connal, my love, and my\n   friend! With grief the sad mourner\n   died.\n\n   Earth here incloseth the loveliest\n   pair on the hill. The grass grows between\n   the stones of their tomb; I sit in\n   the mournful shade. The wind sighs\n   through the grass; and their memory\n   rushes on my mind. Undisturbed you\n   now sleep together; in the tomb of the\n   mountain you rest alone.\n\n\n\n   VI\n\n   Son of the noble Fingal, Oscian,\n   Prince of men! what tears run down\n   the cheeks of age? what shades thy\n   mighty soul?\n\n   Memory, son of Alpin, memory\n   wounds the aged. Of former times are\n   my thoughts; my thoughts are of the\n   noble Fingal. The race of the king return\n   into my mind, and wound me with\n   remembrance.\n\n   One day, returned from the sport of\n   the mountains, from pursuing the sons\n   of the hill, we covered this heath with\n   our youth. Fingal the mighty was here,\n   and Oscur, my son, great in war. Fair\n   on our sight from the sea, at once, a\n   virgin came. Her breast was like the\n   snow of one night. Her cheek like the\n   bud of the rose. Mild was her blue\n   rolling eye: but sorrow was big in her\n   heart.\n\n   Fingal renowned in war! she cries,\n   sons of the king, preserve me! Speak secure,\n   replies the king, daughter of beauty,\n   speak: our ear is open to all: our\n   swords redress the injured. I fly from\n   Ullin, she cries, from Ullin famous in\n   war. I fly from the embrace of him\n   who would debase my blood. Cremor,\n   the friend of men, was my father; Cremor\n   the Prince of Inverne.\n\n   Fingal's younger sons arose; Carryl\n   expert in the bow; Fillan beloved of\n   the fair; and Fergus first in the race.\n   --Who from the farthest Lochlyn?\n   who to the seas of Molochasquir? who\n   dares hurt the maid whom the sons of\n   Fingal guard? Daughter of beauty, rest\n   secure; rest in peace, thou fairest of women.\n\n   Far in the blue distance of the deep,\n   some spot appeared like the back of the\n   ridge-wave. But soon the ship increased\n   on our sight. The hand of Ullin drew\n   her to land. The mountains trembled\n   as he moved. The hills shook at his\n   steps. Dire rattled his armour around\n   him. Death and destruction were in his\n   eyes. His stature like the roe of Morven.\n   He moved in the lightning of\n   steel.\n\n   Our warriors fell before him,\n   like the field before the reapers. Fingal's\n   three sons he bound. He plunged\n   his sword into the fair-one's breast.\n   She fell as a wreath of snow before the\n   sun in spring. Her bosom heaved in\n   death; her soul came forth in blood.\n   Oscur my son came down; the\n   mighty in battle descended. His armour\n   rattled as thunder; and the lightning of\n   his eyes was terrible. There, was the\n   clashing of swords; there, was the voice\n   of steel. They struck and they thrust;\n   they digged for death with their swords.\n   But death was distant far, and delayed\n   to come. The sun began to decline;\n   and the cow-herd thought of home.\n   Then Oscur's keen steel found the heart\n   of Ullin. He fell like a mountain-oak\n   covered over with glittering frost: He\n   shone like a rock on the plain.--Here\n   the daughter of beauty lieth; and\n   here the bravest of men. Here one\n   day ended the fair and the valiant.\n   Here rest the pursuer and the pursued.\n\n   Son of Alpin! the woes of the aged\n   are many: their tears are for the past.\n   This raised my sorrow, warriour; memory\n   awaked my grief. Oscur my\n   son was brave; but Oscur is now no\n   more. Thou hast heard my grief, O\n   son of Alpin; forgive the tears of the\n   aged.\n\n\n\n   VII\n\n   Why openest thou afresh the spring of\n   my grief, O son of Alpin, inquiring\n   how Oscur fell? My eyes are blind with\n   tears; but memory beams on my heart.\n   How can I relate the mournful death of\n   the head of the people! Prince of the\n   warriours, Oscur my son, shall I see thee\n   no more!\n\n   He fell as the moon in a storm; as\n   the sun from the midst of his course,\n   when clouds rise from the waste of the\n   waves, when the blackness of the storm\n   inwraps the rocks of Ardannider. I, like\n   an ancient oak on Morven, I moulder\n   alone in my place. The blast hath lopped\n   my branches away; and I tremble\n   at the wings of the north. Prince of\n   the warriors, Oscur my son! shall I see\n   thee no more!\n\n   DERMID\n\n   DERMID and Oscur were one: They\n   reaped the battle together. Their\n   friendship was strong as their steel; and\n   death walked between them to the field.\n   They came on the foe like two rocks\n   falling from the brows of Ardven. Their\n   swords were stained with the blood of\n   the valiant: warriours fainted at their\n   names. Who was a match for Oscur,\n   but Dermid? and who for Dermid, but\n   Oscur?\n\n   THEY killed mighty Dargo in the\n   field; Dargo before invincible. His\n   daughter was fair as the morn; mild\n   as the beam of night. Her eyes, like\n   two stars in a shower: her breath, the\n   gale of spring: her breasts, as the\n   new fallen snow floating on the moving heath.\n   The warriours saw her, and loved; their\n   souls were fixed on the maid. Each\n   loved her, as his fame; each must\n   possess her or die. But her soul was fixed\n   on Oscur; my son was the youth of\n   her love. She forgot the blood of her\n   father; and loved the hand that slew\n   him.\n\n   Son of Oscian, said Dermid, I love;\n   O Oscur, I love this maid. But her\n   soul cleaveth unto thee; and nothing\n   can heal Dermid. Here, pierce this\n   bosom, Oscur; relieve me, my friend,\n   with thy sword.\n\n   My sword, son of Morny, shall never\n   be stained with the blood of Dermid.\n\n   Who then is worthy to slay me, O\n   Oscur son of Oscian? Let not my life\n   pass away unknown. Let none but Oscur\n   slay me. Send me with honour to\n   the grave, and let my death be renowned.\n   Dermid, make use of thy sword;\n   son of Moray, wield thy steel. Would\n   that I fell with thee! that my death\n   came from the hand of Dermid!\n\n   They fought by the brook of the\n   mountain; by the streams of Branno.\n   Blood tinged the silvery stream, and\n   crudled round the mossy stones. Dermid\n   the graceful fell; fell, and smiled in\n   death.\n\n   And fallest thou, son of Morny;\n   fallest, thou by Oscur's hand! Dermid\n   invincible in war, thus do I see thee fall!\n   --He went, and returned to the maid\n   whom he loved; returned, but she perceived\n   his grief.\n\n   Why that gloom, son of Oscian?\n   what shades thy mighty soul?\n\n   Though once renowned for the bow,\n   O maid, I have lost my fame. Fixed on\n   a tree by the brook of the hill, is the\n   shield of Gormur the brave, whom in\n   battle I slew. I have wasted the day\n   in vain, nor could my arrow pierce it.\n\n   Let me try, son Oscian, the skill\n   of Dargo's daughter. My hands were\n   taught the bow: my father delighted in\n   my skill.\n\n   She went. He stood behind the\n   shield. Her arrow flew and pierced his\n   breast[A].\n\n   [Footnote A: Nothing was held by the ancient Highlanders more essential\n   to their glory, than to die by the hand of some person worthy or renowned.\n   This was the occasion of Oscur's contriving to be slain by his mistress,\n   now that he was weary of life. In those early times suicide was utterly\n   unknown among that people, and no traces of it are found in the old\n   poetry. Whence the translator suspects the account that follows of the\n   daughter of Dargo killing herself, to be the interpolation of some later\n   Bard.]\n\n   Blessed be that hand of snow; and\n   blessed thy bow of yew! I fall resolved\n   on death: and who but the daughter of\n   Dargo was worthy to slay me? Lay me\n   in the earth, my fair-one; lay me by\n   the side of Dermid.\n\n   Oscur! I have the blood, the soul\n   of the mighty Dargo. Well pleased I\n   can meet death. My sorrow I can end\n   thus.--She pierced her white bosom\n   with steel. She fell; she trembled; and\n   died.\n\n   By the brook of the hill their graves\n   are laid; a birch's unequal shade covers\n   their tomb. Often on their green earthen\n   tombs the branchy sons of the mountain\n   feed, when mid-day is all in flames,\n   and silence is over all the hills.\n\n\n\n   VIII\n\n   By the side of a rock on the hill, beneath\n   the aged trees, old Oscian\n   sat on the moss; the last of the race of\n   Fingal. Sightless are his aged eyes;\n   his beard is waving in the wind. Dull\n   through the leafless trees he heard the\n   voice of the north. Sorrow revived in\n   his soul: he began and lamented the\n   dead.\n\n   How hast thou fallen like an oak,\n   with all thy branches round thee! Where\n   is Fingal the King? where is Oscur my\n   son? where are all my race? Alas! in\n   the earth they lie. I feel their tombs\n   with my hands. I hear the river below\n   murmuring hoarsely over the stones.\n   What dost thou, O river, to me? Thou\n   bringest back the memory of the past.\n\n   The race of Fingal stood on thy\n   banks, like a wood in a fertile soil.\n   Keen were their spears of steel. Hardy\n   was he who dared to encounter their\n   rage. Fillan the great was there. Thou\n   Oscur wert there, my son! Fingal himself\n   was there, strong in the grey locks\n   of years. Full rose his sinewy limbs;\n   and wide his shoulders spread. The\n   unhappy met with his arm, when the\n   pride of his wrath arose.\n\n   The son of Morny came; Gaul, the\n   tallest of men. He stood on the hill like\n   an oak; his voice was like the streams of\n   the hill. Why reigneth alone, he cries,\n   the son of the mighty Corval? Fingal is\n   not strong to save: he is no support for\n   the people. I am strong as a storm in\n   the ocean; as a whirlwind on the hill.\n   Yield, son of Corval; Fingal, yield to\n   me.\n\n   Oscur stood forth to meet him;\n   my son would meet the foe. But Fingal\n   came in his strength, and smiled at\n   the vaunter's boast. They threw their\n   arms round each other; they struggled\n   on the plain. The earth is ploughed with\n   their heels. Their bones crack as the boat\n   on the ocean, when it leaps from wave to\n   wave. Long did they toil; with night,\n   they fell on the sounding plain; as two\n   oaks, with their branches mingled, fall\n   crashing from the hill. The tall son\n   of Morny is bound; the aged overcame.\n\n   Fair with her locks of gold, her\n   smooth neck, and her breasts of snow;\n   fair, as the spirits of the hill when at\n   silent noon they glide along the heath;\n   fair, as the rainbow of heaven; came\n   Minvane the maid. Fingal! She softly\n   saith, loose me my brother Gaul.\n   Loose me the hope of my race, the terror\n   of all but Fingal. Can I, replies the\n   King, can I deny the lovely daughter\n   of the hill? take thy brother, O Minvane,\n   thou fairer than the snow of the\n   north!\n\n   Such, Fingal! were thy words; but\n   thy words I hear no more. Sightless\n   I sit by thy tomb. I hear the wind in\n   the wood; but no more I hear my\n   friends. The cry of the hunter is over.\n   The voice of war is ceased.\n\n\n\n   IX\n\n   Thou askest, fair daughter of the\n   isles! whose memory is preserved\n   in these tombs? The memory of Ronnan\n   the bold, and Connan the chief of\n   men; and of her, the fairest of maids,\n   Rivine the lovely and the good. The\n   wing of time is laden with care. Every\n   moment hath woes of its own. Why\n   seek we our grief from afar? or give our\n   tears to those of other times? But thou\n   commanded, and I obey, O fair daughter\n   of the isles!\n\n   Conar was mighty in war. Caul\n   was the friend of strangers. His gates\n   were open to all; midnight darkened\n   not on his barred door. Both lived upon\n   the sons of the mountains. Their bow\n   was the support of the poor.\n\n   Connan was the image of Conar's\n   soul. Caul was renewed in Ronnan his\n   son. Rivine the daughter of Conar was\n   the love of Ronnan; her brother Connan\n   was his friend. She was fair as the\n   harvest-moon setting in the seas of\n   Molochasquir. Her soul was settled on\n   Ronnan; the youth was the dream of her\n   nights.\n\n   Rivine, my love! says Ronnan, I go\n   to my king in Norway[A]. A year and\n   a day shall bring me back. Wilt thou\n   be true to Ronnan?\n\n   [Footnote A: Supposed to be Fergus II. This fragment is reckoned not\n   altogether so ancient as most of the rest.]\n\n   Ronnan! a year and a day I will\n   spend in sorrow. Ronnan, behave like\n   a man, and my soul shall exult in thy\n   valour. Connan my friend, says Ronnan,\n   wilt thou preserve Rivine thy sister?\n   Durstan is in love with the maid;\n   and soon shall the sea bring the stranger\n   to our coast.\n\n   Ronnan, I will defend: Do thou\n   securely go.--He went. He returned\n   on his day. But Durstan returned\n   before him.\n\n   Give me thy daughter, Conar, says\n   Durstan; or fear and feel my power.\n\n   He who dares attempt my sister, says\n   Connan, must meet this edge of steel.\n   Unerring in battle is my arm: my\n   sword, as the lightning of heaven.\n\n   Ronnan the warriour came; and\n   much he threatened Durstan.\n\n   But, saith Euran the servant of\n   gold, Ronnan! by the gate of the north\n   shall Durstan this night carry thy fair-one\n   away. Accursed, answers Ronnan, be this arm if death meet him not\n   there.\n\n   Connan! saith Euran, this night\n   shall the stranger carry thy sister away.\n   My sword shall meet him, replies Connan,\n   and he shall lie low on earth.\n\n   The friends met by night, and they\n   fought. Blood and sweat ran down\n   their limbs as water on the mossy rock.\n   Connan falls; and cries, O Durstan,\n   be favourable to Rivine!--And is it my\n   friend, cries Ronnan, I have slain? O\n   Connan! I knew thee not.\n\n   He went, and he fought with Durstan.\n   Day began to rise on the combat,\n   when fainting they fell, and expired.\n   Rivine came out with the morn;\n   and--O what detains my Ronnan!\n   --She saw him lying pale in his blood;\n   and her brother lying pale by his side.\n\n   What could she say: what could she\n   do? her complaints were many and vain.\n   She opened this grave for the warriours;\n   and fell into it herself, before it\n   was closed; like the sun snatched away\n   in a storm.\n\n   Thou hast heard this tale of grief,\n   O fair daughter of the isles! Rivine was\n   fair as thyself: shed on her grave a\n   tear.\n\n\n\n   X\n\n   It is night; and I am alone, forlorn\n   on the hill of storms. The wind is\n   heard in the mountain. The torrent\n   shrieks down the rock. No hut receives\n   me from the rain; forlorn on the hill of\n   winds.\n\n   Rise, moon! from behind thy\n   clouds; stars of the night, appear!\n   Lead me, some light, to the place where\n   my love rests from the toil of the chase!\n   his bow near him, unstrung; his dogs\n   panting around him. But here I must\n   sit alone, by the rock of the mossy\n   stream. The stream and the wind\n   roar; nor can I hear the voice of my\n   love.\n\n   Why delayeth my Shalgar, why the\n   son of the hill, his promise? Here is\n   the rock; and the tree; and here the\n   roaring stream. Thou promisedst with\n   night to be here. Ah! whither is my\n   Shalgar gone? With thee I would fly\n   my father; with thee, my brother of\n   pride. Our race have long been foes;\n   but we are not foes, O Shalgar!\n\n   Cease a little while, O wind! stream,\n   be thou silent a while! let my voice be\n   heard over the heath; let my wanderer\n   hear me. Shalgar! it is I who call. Here\n   is the tree, and the rock. Shalgar, my\n   love! I am here. Why delayest thou\n   thy coming? Alas! no answer.\n\n   Lo! the moon appeareth. The\n   flood is bright in the vale. The rocks\n   are grey on the face of the hill. But\n   I see him not on the brow; his dogs\n   before him tell not that he is coming.\n   Here I must sit alone.\n\n   But who are these that lie beyond\n   me on the heath? Are they my love\n   and my brother?--Speak to me, O my\n   friends! they answer not. My soul is\n   tormented with fears.--Ah! they are\n   dead. Their swords are red from the\n   fight. O my brother! my brother!\n   why hast thou slain my Shalgar? why,\n   O Shalgar! hast thou slain my brother?\n   Dear were ye both to me! speak to me;\n   hear my voice, sons of my love! But\n   alas! they are silent; silent for ever!\n   Cold are their breast of clay!\n\n   Oh! from the rock of the hill;\n   from the top of the mountain of winds,\n   speak ye ghosts of the dead! speak,\n   and I will not be afraid.--Whither\n   are ye gone to rest? In what cave of\n   the hill shall I find you?\n\n   I sit in my grief. I wait for morning\n   in my tears. Rear the tomb, ye\n   friends of the dead; but close it not\n   till I come. My life flieth away like a\n   dream: why should I stay behind?\n   Here shall I rest with my friends by the\n   stream of the founding rock. When\n   night comes on the hill: when the wind\n   is up on the heath; my ghost shall stand\n   in the wind, and mourn the death of\n   my friends. The hunter shall hear\n   from his booth. He shall fear, but\n   love my voice. For sweet shall my voice\n   be for my friends; for pleasant were\n   they both to me.\n\n\n\n   XI\n\n   Sad! I am sad indeed: nor small my\n   cause of woe!--Kirmor, thou hast\n   lost no son; thou hast lost no daughter\n   of beauty. Connar the valiant lives;\n   and Annir the fairest of maids. The\n   boughs of thy family flourish, O Kirmor!\n   but Armyn is the last of his\n   race.\n\n   Rise, winds of autumn, rise; blow\n   upon the dark heath! streams of the\n   mountains, roar! howl, ye tempests,\n   in the trees! walk through broken\n   clouds, O moon! show by intervals thy\n   pale face! bring to my mind that sad\n   night, when all my children fell; when\n   Arindel the mighty fell; when Daura\n   the lovely died.\n\n   Daura, my daughter! thou wert\n   fair; fair as the moon on the hills of\n   Jura; white as the driven snow; sweet as\n   the breathing gale. Armor renowned in\n   war came, and fought Daura's love; he\n   was not long denied; fair was the hope\n   of their friends.\n\n   Earch son of Odgal repined; for\n   his brother was slain by Armor. He\n   came disguised like a son of the sea:\n   fair was his skiff on the wave; white\n   his locks of age; calm his serious brow.\n   Fairest of women, he said, lovely daughter\n   of Armyn! a rock not distant in\n   the sea, bears a tree on its side; red\n   shines the fruit afar. There Armor\n   waiteth for Daura. I came to fetch\n   his love. Come, fair daughter of Armyn!\n\n   She went; and she called on Armor.\n   Nought answered, but the son of the\n   rock. Armor, my love! my love!\n   why tormentest thou me with fear?\n   come, graceful son of Arduart, come;\n   it is Daura who calleth thee!--Earch\n   the traitor fled laughing to the land.\n   She lifted up her voice, and cried for\n   her brother and her father. Arindel!\n   Armyn! none to relieve your Daura?\n\n   Her voice came over the sea. Arindel\n   my son descended from the hill;\n   rough in the spoils of the chace. His\n   arrows rattled by his side; his bow was\n   in his hand; five grey dogs attended\n   his steps. He saw fierce Earch on the\n   shore; he seized and bound him to an\n   oak. Thick fly the thongs of the hide\n   around his limbs; he loads the wind\n   with his groans.\n\n   Arindel ascends the surgy deep in\n   his boat, to bring Daura to the land.\n   Armor came in his wrath, and let fly\n   the grey-feathered shaft. It sung; it\n   sunk in thy heart, O Arindel my son!\n   for Earch the traitor thou diedst. What\n   is thy grief, O Daura, when round\n   thy feet is poured thy brother's blood!\n\n   The boat is broken in twain by the\n   waves. Armor plunges into the sea, to\n   rescue his Daura or die. Sudden a blast\n   from the hill comes over the waves.\n   He sunk, and he rose no more.\n\n   Alone, on the sea-beat rock, my\n   daughter was heard to complain. Frequent\n   and loud were her cries; nor\n   could her father relieve her. All\n   night I stood on the shore. All night I\n   heard her cries. Loud was the wind;\n   and the rain beat hard on the side of the\n   mountain. Before morning appeared,\n   her voice was weak. It died away, like\n   the evening-breeze among the grass of\n   the rocks. Spent with grief she expired.\n   O lay me soon by her side.\n\n   When the storms of the mountain\n   come; when the north lifts the waves\n   on high; I sit by the sounding shore,\n   and look on the fatal rock. Often by\n   the setting moon I see the ghosts of\n   my children. Indistinct, they walk in\n   mournful conference together. Will\n   none of you speak to me?--But they\n   do not regard their father.\n\n\n\n   XII\n\n   RYNO, ALPIN.\n\n   RYNO\n\n   The wind and the rain are over:\n   calm is the noon of day. The\n   clouds are divided in heaven. Over\n   the green hills flies the inconstant sun.\n   Red through the stony vale comes\n   down the stream of the hill. Sweet are\n   thy murmurs, O stream! but more\n   sweet is the voice I hear. It is the voice\n   of Alpin the son of the song, mourning\n   for the dead. Bent is his head of age,\n   and red his tearful eye. Alpin, thou\n   son of the song, why alone on the silent\n   hill? why complainest thou, as a\n   blast in the wood; as a wave on the\n   lonely shore?\n\n   ALPIN.\n\n   My tears, O Ryno! are for the dead;\n   my voice, for the inhabitants of the\n   grave. Tall thou art on the hill; fair\n   among the sons of the plain. But thou\n   shalt fall like Morar; and the mourner\n   shalt sit on thy tomb. The hills shall\n   know thee no more; thy bow shall lie in\n   the hall, unstrung.\n\n   Thou wert swift, O Morar! as a\n   doe on the hill; terrible as a meteor of\n   fire. Thy wrath was as the storm of\n   December. Thy sword in battle, as\n   lightning in the field. Thy voice was\n   like a stream after rain; like thunder\n   on distant hills. Many fell by thy\n   arm; they were consumed in the flames\n   of thy wrath.\n\n   But when thou returnedst from war,\n   how peaceful was thy brow! Thy face\n   was like the sun after rain; like the\n   moon in the silence of night; calm as\n   the breast of the lake when the loud\n   wind is laid.\n\n   Narrow is thy dwelling now; dark\n   the place of thine abode. With three\n   steps I compass thy grave, O thou who\n   wast so great before! Four stones with\n   their heads of moss are the only memorial\n   of thee. A tree with scarce a leaf,\n   long grass which whistles in the wind,\n   mark to the hunter's eye the grave of\n   the mighty Morar. Morar! thou art\n   low indeed. Thou hast no mother to\n   mourn thee; no maid with her tears of\n   love. Dead is she that brought thee\n   forth. Fallen is the daughter of Morglan.\n\n   Who on his staff is this? who is this,\n   whose head is white with age, whose\n   eyes are red with tears, who quakes\n   at every step?--It is thy father, O\n   Morar! the father of none but thee.\n   He heard of thy fame in battle; he heard\n   of foes dispersed. He heard of Morar's\n   fame; why did he not hear of his\n   wound? Weep, thou father of Morar!\n   weep; but thy son heareth thee not.\n   Deep is the sleep of the dead; low their\n   pillow of dust. No more shall he hear\n   thy voice; no more shall he awake at\n   thy call.  When shall it be morn in the\n   grave, to bid the slumberer awake?\n\n   Farewell, thou bravest of men!\n   thou conqueror in the field! but the field\n   shall see thee no more; nor the dark\n   wood be lightened with the splendor of\n   thy steel. Thou hast left no son.\n   But the song shall preserve thy name.\n   Future times shall hear of thee; they\n   shall hear of the fallen Morar.\n\n\n\n   XIII\n\n   [Footnote: This is the opening of the epic poem mentioned in the preface.\n   The two following fragments are parts of some episodes of the same work.]\n\n   Cuchlaid sat by the wall; by the\n   tree of the rustling leaf.\n\n   [Footnote: The aspen or poplar tree]\n\n   His spear leaned against the mossy rock.\n   His shield lay by him on the grass.\n   Whilst he thought on the mighty Carbre\n   whom he slew in battle, the scout of\n   the ocean came, Moran the son of Fithil.\n\n   Rise, Cuchulaid, rise! I see the ships\n   of Garve. Many are the foe, Cuchulaid;\n   many the sons of Lochlyn.\n\n   Moran! thou ever tremblest; thy\n   fears increase the foe. They are the\n   ships of the Desert of hills arrived to assist\n   Cuchulaid.\n\n   I saw their chief, says Moran, tall as\n   a rock of ice. His spear is like that fir;\n   his shield like the rising moon. He sat\n   upon a rock on the shore, as a grey\n   cloud upon the hill. Many, mighty\n   man! I said, many are our heroes;\n   Garve, well art thou named,\n   many are the sons of our king.\n\n   [Footnote: Garve signifies a man of great size.]\n\n   He answered like a wave on the\n   rock; who is like me here? The valiant\n   live not with me; they go to the\n   earth from my hand. The king of the\n   Desert of hills alone can fight with\n   Garve. Once we wrestled on the hill.\n   Our heels overturned the wood. Rocks\n   fell from their place, and rivulets changed\n   their course. Three days we strove\n   together; heroes stood at a distance,\n   and feared. On the fourth, the King\n   saith that I fell; but Garve saith, he\n   stood. Let Cuchulaid yield to him that\n   is strong as a storm.\n\n   No. I will never yield to man.\n   Cuchulaid will conquer or die. Go,\n   Moran, take my spear; strike the shield\n   of Caithbait which hangs before the\n   gate. It never rings in peace. My heroes\n   shall hear on the hill,--\n\n\n\n   XIV\n\n   DUCHOMMAR, MORNA.\n\n   DUCHOMMAR.\n\n   [Footnote: The signification of the names in this fragment are;\n   Dubhchomar, a black well-shaped man. Muirne or Morna, a woman beloved\n   by all. Cormac-cairbre, an unequalled and rough warriour. Cromleach,\n   a crooked hill. Mugruch, a surly gloomy man. Tarman, thunder. Moinie,\n   soft in temper and person.]\n\n   Morna, thou fairest of women,\n   daughter of Cormac-Carbre!\n   why in the circle of stones, in the cave\n   of the rock, alone? The stream murmureth\n   hoarsely. The blast groaneth\n   in the aged tree. The lake is troubled\n   before thee. Dark are the clouds of\n   the sky. But thou art like snow on\n   the heath. Thy hair like a thin cloud\n   of gold on the top of Cromleach. Thy\n   breasts like two smooth rocks on the hill\n   which is seen from the stream of Brannuin.\n   Thy arms, as two white pillars\n   in the hall of Fingal.\n\n   MORNA.\n\n   Whence the son of Mugruch, Duchommar\n   the most gloomy of men? Dark\n   are thy brows of terror. Red thy rolling\n   eyes. Does Garve appear on the\n   sea? What of the foe, Duchommar?\n\n   DUCHOMMAR.\n\n   From the hill I return, O Morna,\n   from the hill of the flying deer. Three\n   have I slain with my bow; three with\n   my panting dogs. Daughter of Cormac-Carbre,\n   I love thee as my soul. I\n   have slain a deer for thee. High was\n   his branchy head; and fleet his feet of\n   wind.\n\n   MORNA.\n\n   Gloomy son of Mugruch, Duchommar!\n   I love thee not: hard is thy heart\n   of rock; dark thy terrible brow. But\n   Cadmor the son of Tarman, thou art\n   the love of Morna! thou art like a sunbeam\n   on the hill, in the day of the\n   gloomy storm. Sawest thou the son of\n   Tarman, lovely on the hill of the chace?\n   Here the daughter of Cormac-Carbre\n   waiteth the coming of Cadmor.\n\n   DUCHOMMAR.\n\n   And long shall Morna wait. His\n   blood is on my sword. I met him by\n   the mossy stone, by the oak of the noisy\n   stream. He fought; but I slew him;\n   his blood is on my sword. High on\n   the hill I will raise his tomb, daughter\n   of Cormac-Carbre. But love thou the\n   son of Mugruch; his arm is strong as a\n   storm.\n\n   MORNA.\n\n   And is the son of Tarman fallen;\n   the youth with the breast of snow! the\n   first in the chase of the hill; the foe\n   of the sons of the ocean!--Duchommar,\n   thou art gloomy indeed; cruel is\n   thy arm to me.--But give me that\n   sword, son of Mugruch; I love the\n   blood of Cadmor.\n\n   [He gives her the sword, with which she instantly stabs him.]\n\n   DUCHOMMAR.\n\n   Daughter of Cormac-Carbre, thou\n   hast pierced Duchommar! the sword is\n   cold in my breast; thou hast killed the\n   son of Mugruch. Give me to Moinic\n   the maid; for much she loved Duchommar.\n   My tomb she will raise on the\n   hill; the hunter shall see it, and praise\n   me.--But draw the sword from my\n   side, Morna; I feel it cold.--\n\n   [Upon her coming near him, he stabs her. As she fell, she plucked a stone\n   from the side of the cave, and placed it betwixt them, that his blood\n   might not be mingled with hers.]\n\n\n\n   XV\n\n   [1]Where is Gealchossa my love, the\n   daughter of Tuathal-Teachvar?\n   I left her in the hall of the plain, when I\n   fought with the hairy Ulfadha. Return\n   soon, she said, O Lamderg! for\n   here I wait in sorrow. Her white breast\n   rose with sighs; her cheek was wet\n   with tears. But she cometh not to meet\n   Lamderg; or sooth his soul after battle.\n   Silent is the hall of joy; I hear not\n   the voice of the singer. Brann does\n   not shake his chains at the gate, glad\n   at the coming of his master. Where\n   is Gealchossa my love, the daughter of\n   Tuathal-Teachvar?\n\n   [Footnote: The signification of the names in this fragment are;\n   Gealchossack, white-legged. Tuathal-Teachtmhar, the surly, but fortunate\n   man. Lambhdearg, bloodyhand. Ulfadba, long beard. Fichios, the conqueror\n   of men.]\n\n   Lamderg! says Firchios son of Aydon,\n   Gealchossa may be on the hill;\n   she and her chosen maids pursuing the\n   flying deer.\n\n   Firchios! no noise I hear. No\n   sound in the wood of the hill. No\n   deer fly in my sight; no panting dog\n   pursueth. I see not Gealchossa my\n   love; fair as the full moon setting on\n   the hills of Cromleach. Go, Firchios!\n   go to Allad, the grey-haired son of\n   the rock. He liveth in the circle of\n   stones; he may tell of Gealchossa.\n\n   [Footnote: Allad is plainly a Druid consulted on this occasion.]\n\n   Allad! saith Firchios, thou who\n   dwellest in the rock; thou who tremblest\n   alone; what saw thine eyes of\n   age?\n\n   I saw, answered Allad the old, Ullin the son of Carbre: He came like a\n   cloud from the hill; he hummed a surly\n   song as he came, like a storm in\n   leafless wood. He entered the hall of\n   the plain. Lamderg, he cried, most\n   dreadful of men! fight, or yield to Ullin.\n   Lamderg, replied Gealchoffa,\n   Lamderg is not here: he fights the\n   hairy Ulfadha; mighty man, he is not\n   here. But Lamderg never yields; he\n   will fight the son of Carbre. Lovely art\n   thou, O daughter of Tuathal-Teachvar!\n   said Ullin. I carry thee to the\n   house of Carbre; the valiant shall have\n   Gealchossa. Three days from the top\n   of Cromleach will I call Lamderg to\n   fight. The fourth, you belong to Ullin,\n   if Lamderg die, or fly my sword.\n\n   Allad! peace to thy dreams!--found\n   the horn, Firchios!--Ullin may\n   hear, and meet me on the top of Cromleach.\n\n   Lamderg rushed on like a storm.\n   On his spear he leaped over rivers. Few\n   were his strides up the hill. The rocks\n   fly back from his heels; loud crashing\n   they bound to the plain. His armour,\n   his buckler rung. He hummed a surly\n   song, like the noise of the falling\n   stream. Dark as a cloud he stood above;\n   his arms, like meteors, shone.\n   From the summit of the hill, he rolled\n   a rock. Ullin heard in the hall of\n   Carbre.--","title":"Fragments of Ancient Poetry","tradition":"myth-cosmogony","translated_text":null,"word_count":11629}