fragments of ancient poetry, by james macpherson

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Title: Fragments Of Ancient Poetry

Author: James MacPherson

Commentator: John J. Dunn

Release Date: May, 2005 [EBook #8161]This file was first posted on June 23, 2003Last Updated: May 6, 2013

Language: English

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FRAGMENTS OF ANCIENT POETRY

By James Macpherson

The Augustan Reprint Society

Introduction By John J. Dunn

GENERAL EDITORS

George Robert Guffey, University of California, Los Angeles

Earl Miner, University of California, Los Angeles

Maximillian E. Novak, University of California, Los Angeles

Robert Vosper, William Andrews Clark Memorial Library


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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 tointernational 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 repeat

whole duans "without remorse"; and, as I shall discuss later,Byron paid Macpherson the high compliment of writing an imitationof Ossian, which he published in _Hours of Idleness_.

The publication of the modest and anonymous pamphlet, _Fragmentsof Ancient Poetry_ marks the beginning of Macpherson's rise 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 many


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readers 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 theimposture 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 showedthe 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 Edinburgh


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literati, and for the next forty years he lavished his energy inpraisingand 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 in

communicating with Macpherson:

"I being as much struck as Mr Home with the high spirit of poetrywhich breathed in them, presently made inquiry where Mr. Macphersonwas to be found; and having sent for him to come to me, had muchconversation with him on the subject."[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 translatethem.He said that he felt himself inadequate to render "the spirit andforce"

of the originals and that "they would be very ill relished by thepublicas so very different from the strain of modern ideas, and of modern,connected, and polished poetry." This whetted Blair's interest evenmore,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.[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 Prefacethen,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 thePoems 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 longer

essay, 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.

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; here

were maidens and warriors who lived in antiquity on the harsh,wind-swept wastes of the Highlands, but they were capable of


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highly 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 _extasi_ with their infinite beauty, thatI writ into Scotland to make a thousand enquiries....The whole external evidence would make one believethese fragments (for so he calls them, tho' nothing canbe more entire) counterfeit: but the internal is so strongon the other side, that I am resolved to believe them genuinespite of the Devil & the Kirk."

Gray concluded his remarks with the assertion that "this Man is

the 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 everyhope 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 blankmade, 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.

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 Ochtertyre


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far from "nature methodized." His imagination illumined fitfully asceneof 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 navely 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 "genuine

part of the poetic texture"; and she adds that

"within this poetic context, the supernatural seems convincingbecause believed in: it is part of the fabric of life for thecharacters of the poem. Ghosts in the Ossianic poems, almost 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 therest 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."

V


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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 wereinstrumental

in 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 60, were James Boswell and DavidHume.[18]By the time of the second edition of the _Fragments_ (also in 1760),Blair, or more likely Macpherson himself, could inform the public inthe"Advertisement" "that measures are now taken for making a fullcollectionof 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 theexceptionof 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

[Footnote 1: See Scott's letter to Anna Seward in J. G. Lockhart,

_Memoirs ofSir Walter Scott_ (London, 1900), I, 410-15.]

[Footnote 2: _The Poems of Ossian_, ed. Malcolm Laing (Edinburgh,1805), I, 441.]

[Footnote 3: See Home's letter to Mackenzie in the _Report of theCommittee of the

Highland Society of Scotland_ (Edinburgh, 1805), Appendix, pp. 68-69.]

[Footnote 4: Carlyle to Mackenzie, _ibid_., p. 66.]

[Footnote 5: Blair to Mackenzie, _ibid_., p. 57.]


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[Footnote 6: _Ibid_., p. 58.]

[Footnote 7: Quoted from _The Poems of Ossian_ (London, 1807), I, 222.After its

initial separate publication, Blair's dissertation was regularlyincluded with the collected poems.]

[Footnote 8: _Correspondence of Thomas Gray_, ed. Paget Toynbee andLeonard

Whibley (Oxford, 1935), II, 679-80.]

[Footnote 9: _The Works of Lord Byron, Poetry_, ed. Ernest HartleyColeridge

(London, 1898), I, 183.]

[Footnote 10: "On Poetry in General," _The Complete Works of WilliamHazlitt_, ed.

P. P. Howe (London, 1930), V, 18.]

[Footnote 11: Quoted in Henry Grey Graham, _Scottish Men of Letters intheEighteenth Century_ (London, 1908), p. 240.]

[Footnote 12: _Scotland and Scotsmen in the Eighteenth Century_, ed.Alexander

Allardyce (Edinburgh, 1888), I, 547.]

[Footnote 13: "The Influence of Ossian," _English_, VII (1948), 96.]

[Footnote 14: _The Sublime_ (Ann Arbor, 1960), p. 126.]

[Footnote 15: _The Insistence of Horror_ (Cambridge, Mass., 1962), pp.86-87.]

[Footnote 16: _The Sufferings of Young Werther_, trans. Bayard Morgan(New York,

1957), p. 51.]

[Footnote 17: _Report_, Appendix, p. 58.]

[Footnote 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_."


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LUCAN

PREFACE

The public may depend on the following fragments as genuine remains ofancient Scottish poetry. The date of their composition cannot beexactlyascertained. Tradition, in the country where they were written, refersthem to an ra of the most remote antiquity: and this tradition issupported by the spirit and strain of the poems themselves; whichaboundwith those ideas, and paint those manners, that belong to the mostearly

state of society. The diction too, in the original, is very obsolete;and differs widely from the style of such poems as have been writteninthe same language two or three centuries ago. They were certainlycomposed before the establishment of clanship in the northern part ofScotland, which is itself very ancient; for had clans been then 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 totheChristian religion or worship; indeed, few traces of religion of anykind.One circumstance seems to prove them to be coeval with the veryinfancyof Christianity in Scotland. In a fragment of the same poems, whichthetranslator has seen, a Culdee or Monk is represented as desirous totakedown in writing from the mouth of Oscian, who is the principalpersonagein 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 subjectstoohigh to be recorded by him, or by any of his religion: A full proofthatChristianity 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 wereoriginallyepisodes of a greater work which related to the wars of Fingal.Concerning this hero innumerable traditions remain, to this day, intheHighlands 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 in


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Ireland 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 moreby

oral tradition. And tradition, in a country so free of intermixturewithforeigners, and among a people so strongly attached to the memory oftheirancestors, has preserved many of them in a great measure incorruptedtothis day.

They are not set to music, nor sung. The verification in the originalissimple; and to such as understand the language, very smooth andbeautiful;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. Eventhearrangement of the words in the original has been imitated; to whichmustbe 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 thanthosenow given to the world, might be found in the same country where thesehave been collected. In particular there is reason to hope that oneworkof considerable length, and which deserves to be styled an heroicpoem,might be recovered and translated, if encouragement were given to suchanundertaking. The subject is, an invasion of Ireland by Swarthan KingofLochlyn; 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, "The

Desert of the hills," arrives with his ships to assist Cuchulaid. Heexpels the Danes from the country; and returns home victorious. Thispoemis held to be of greater antiquity than any of the rest that arepreserved.And the author speaks of himself as present in the expedition ofFingal.The three last poems in the collection are fragments which thetranslatorobtained of this epic poem; and though very imperfect, they werejudged notunworthy of being inserted. If the whole were recovered, it mightserve to

throw confiderable light upon the Scottish and Irish antiquities.


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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 mist

is flying over thee, let me approachmy 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. Mydogs 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, andheaped-up earth, shall murk me to futuretimes. When the hunter shall sit bythe mound, and produce his food at

noon, "some warrior rests here," hewill say; and my fame shall live in his


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not 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. When

mid-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 thewoods. White clouds rise on the sky: the

trembling 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? Wemight 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 onthe 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.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 his

voice greet thine ear. Silent is he inthe deep, unhappy daughter of Reynold!


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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 the

isles.

IV

CONNAL, CRIMORA,

CRIMORA.

Who cometh from the hill, likea cloud tinged with the beamof the west? Whose voice is that, loud

as 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 theydescended 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 iron

shield of Rinval; that shield like thefull moon when it is darkened in thesky.

CRIMORA.

That shield I bring, O Connal; butit 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 mound


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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 the

shaggy 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 betweenthe stones of their tomb; I sit inthe mournful shade. The wind sighsthrough the grass; and their memoryrushes on my mind. Undisturbed you

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

VI

Son of the noble Fingal, Oscian,Prince of men! what tears run downthe 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 withour youth. Fingal the mighty was here,and Oscur, my son, great in war. Fairon our sight from the sea, at once, avirgin came. Her breast was like thesnow of one night. Her cheek like the

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

Fingal renowned in war! she cries,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; Cremor

the Prince of Inverne.


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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 of

Fingal 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 trembledas 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 of

steel.

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 indeath; 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-oakcovered 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; memoryawaked my grief. Oscur myson was brave; but Oscur is now nomore. Thou hast heard my grief, Oson of Alpin; forgive the tears of theaged.

VII

Why openest thou afresh the spring of


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my 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 thee

no 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, likean ancient oak on Morven, I moulderalone in my place. The blast hath loppedmy branches away; and I trembleat the wings of the north. Prince 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, thegale of spring: her breasts, as thenew fallen snow floating on the moving heath.The warriours saw her, and loved; theirsouls were fixed on the maid. Eachloved her, as his fame; each mustpossess her or die. But her soul was fixedon Oscur; my son was the youth of

her love. She forgot the blood of herfather; and loved the hand that slewhim.

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

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

Who then is worthy to slay me, O


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Oscur 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. Would

that 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, andcrudled 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 moreessential

to their glory, than to die by the hand of some person worthy orrenowned.

This was the occasion of Oscur's contriving to be slain by hismistress,

now that he was weary of life. In those early times suicide wasutterly

unknown among that people, and no traces of it are found in the oldpoetry. Whence the translator suspects the account that follows of

thedaughter of Dargo killing herself, to be the interpolation of some

laterBard.]

Blessed be that hand of snow; andblessed thy bow of yew! I fall resolved

on death: and who but the daughter ofDargo was worthy to slay me? Lay me


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in 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 end

thus.--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. Thou

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

The son of Morny came; Gaul, 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 for

the people. I am strong as a storm inthe ocean; as a whirlwind on the hill.


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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 at

the 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 thenorth!

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 of

men; 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 thoucommanded, 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 upon

the sons of the mountains. Their bowwas the support of the poor.


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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 the

harvest-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 reckonednot

altogether 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 of

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

The friends met by night, and theyfought. Blood and sweat ran downtheir limbs as water on the mossy rock.

Connan falls; and cries, O Durstan,be favourable to Rivine!--And is it my


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friend, cries Ronnan, I have slain? OConnan! I knew thee not.

He went, and he fought with Durstan.Day began to rise on the combat,when fainting they fell, and expired.

Rivine came out with the morn;and--O what detains my Ronnan!--She saw him lying pale in his blood;and her brother lying pale by his side.

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

Thou hast heard this tale of grief,

O fair daughter of the isles! Rivine wasfair as thyself: shed on her grave atear.

X

It is night; and I am alone, forlornon the hill of storms. The wind isheard in the mountain. The torrentshrieks down the rock. No hut receivesme from the rain; forlorn on the hill ofwinds.

Rise, moon! from behind thyclouds; stars of the night, appear!Lead me, some light, to the place wheremy love rests from the toil of the chase!his bow near him, unstrung; his dogspanting around him. But here I mustsit alone, by the rock of the mossystream. The stream and the windroar; nor can I hear the voice of mylove.

Why delayeth my Shalgar, why the

son of the hill, his promise? Here isthe rock; and the tree; and here theroaring stream. Thou promisedst withnight to be here. Ah! whither is myShalgar gone? With thee I would flymy father; with thee, my brother ofpride. Our race have long been foes;but we are not foes, O Shalgar!

Cease a little while, O wind! stream,be thou silent a while! let my voice beheard over the heath; let my wandererhear me. Shalgar! it is I who call. Here

is the tree, and the rock. Shalgar, mylove! I am here. Why delayest thou


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thy 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 dogs

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

But who are these that lie beyondme on the heath? Are they my loveand my brother?--Speak to me, O myfriends! they answer not. My soul istormented with fears.--Ah! they aredead. 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.--Whitherare 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 ofmy 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

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 the


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mountains, 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 Daura

the 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; hewas 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 fetchhis 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 an

oak. Thick fly the thongs of the hidearound his limbs; he loads the windwith his groans.

Arindel ascends the surgy deep inhis boat, to bring Daura to the land.Armor came in his wrath, and let 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, to


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rescue 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. Frequent

and 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 waves

on 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 theydo 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. Overthe 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, thou

son of the song, why alone on the silenthill? why complainest thou, as ablast 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 shall

know thee no more; thy bow shall lie inthe hall, unstrung.


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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 was

like 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; dark

the 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 the

grave, to bid the slumberer awake?

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


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

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

Cuchlaid sat by the wall; by the

tree 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 valiantlive 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, hestood. 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


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DUCHOMMAR, MORNA.

DUCHOMMAR.

[Footnote: The signification of the names in this fragment are;

Dubhchomar, a black well-shaped man. Muirne or Morna, a womanbelovedby 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 groaneth

in 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 pillarsin 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 of

wind.

MORNA.

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-Carbre

waiteth the coming of Cadmor.


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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 is

thy 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 astone

from the side of the cave, and placed it betwixt them, that hisblood

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. Returnsoon, 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, glad

at the coming of his master. Whereis Gealchossa my love, the daughter of


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

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