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THE BATTLE of LORA. A POEM, WITH Some FRAGMENTS written in the ERSE, or IRISH LANGUAGE, BY OSSIAN, the SON of FINGAL.
Tranſlated into Engliſh Verſe By Mr. DERRICK.
Quis talia fando temperet a Lachrymis?
VIRG.
LONDON: Printed by T. GARDNER, at Cowley's Head, oppoſite St. Clement's Church in the Strand; and ſold by Meſſrs. DODSLEY in Pall-Mall, and J. COOTE in Pater-noſter-Row. MDCCLXII.
To the PUBLIC.
[]IT would be unjuſt to ſend the following Pieces into the World, without acknowledging the high Reſpect I have for Mr. M'PHERSON's great Abilities; ſince he has a very particular Right to ſhare in the Reputation theſe Poems may chance to acquire; the Verſification being made from his elegant and ſpirited Proſe Tranſlation of Oſſian's inimitable Performances. That we have them preſerved from being ſwallowed up in the Gulph of Ob⯑livion, is owing to his fine Diſcernment, and incomparable Induſtry.
TO THE EARL of POMFRET.
[]MY LORD,
THOUGH I am ſeldom inclined to think much of my own little Abilities, I cannot help feeling ſome Vanity, when their Eſſays are crown'd with the Approba⯑tion of ſo great a Maſter in the Belles Lettres, as your Lord⯑ſhip. To be able to engage the Attention, or acquire the Patronage of the Earl of POMFRET, implies Merit: Since to the many Virtues which reflect Honour upon elevated Rank, he adds deep Penetration, ſtrong Judgment, well digeſted Learning, and a Taſte truly elegant.
I ſhould think myſelf, My Lord, ungrateful if I omitted this Opportunity of aſſuring you, I ſhall always retain a deep Senſe of the very particular Favours you have been pleaſed to confer upon me. Among the happieſt Hours of my Life, thoſe muſt ſtand foremoſt, in which I have had the Honour of being admitted to your Lordſhip's Converſation, from which I never aroſe without conſiderable Improve⯑ment; an Increaſe of which it ſhall be my utmoſt Ambi⯑tion to deſerve.
It was the good Fortune of the following Pieces to pleaſe you in Manuſcript, they therefore intreat to be in⯑troduced to the public Light under the Sanction of your Lordſhip's Protection; an Honour which, among many other Obligations, ſhall be always acknowledg'd, with due Reſpect, by, My Lord,
Your Lordſhip's Moſt obliged and obedient Servant, SAMUEL DERRICK.
Chelſea, March 29, 1762.
[5]THE BATTLE of LORA. A POEM.
[]The ARGUMENT.
FINGAL, King of Morven, returning Home vic⯑torious from the Expedition in Ireland, which is ce⯑lebrated in the Epic Poem bearing his Name, made a Feaſt, to which all his Chiefs, Ma-ronnan and Aldo ex⯑cepted, were invited. The Neglect ſeems to have been accidental; however they reſented it ſo ſtrongly as to aban⯑don their native Country, and enter into the Service of Erragon, King of Sora, a Name given to ſome Part of Scandinavia. Here Lorma, the beautiful Wife of Erragon, ſeeing Aldo by chance, his Reputation as a Warrior being very high, fell in Love with him. He return'd her Paſ⯑ſion, and they fled into Morven. Erragon purſuing them, invaded that Kingdon with a powerful Force, and ſlew Aldo in ſingle Combat, but was himſelf ſlain by Gaul, the Son of Morni, and his Army defeated. This is the Sub⯑ject of the enſuing Poem, which is beautiful, ſentimental, and intereſting. It was deliver'd by Oſſian, after becom⯑ing blind, to a Culdee, or Chriſtian Hermit, who led a recluſe Life near him, and whoſe Sacred Hymns he ima⯑gined were compoſed in Honour of his deceaſed Chiefs, or Addreſſes to the Spirits in the Air.
SON of the diſtant Land, within whoſe Cell,
Calm Peace and Heavenly Contemplation dwell,
What Notes of warbling Melody are theſe,
That pierce thy Grove and ſigh upon the Breeze?
Tho' loud th' impetuous Torrent in mine Ear,
The Voice of Songs, a tuneful Voice I hear.
Perhaps you call your Country's Chiefs to mind;
Or praiſe the Spirits in the poſting Wind.
Son of the Rock, caſt o'er the Plain thine Eyes;
Among the Heath thou ſee'ſt green Tombs ariſe,
The rank Graſs whiſtles round, and riſing Stones,
Mark the ſad Spot where lie the Heroe's Bones.
Thou, lonely Dweller of the Rock, can'ſt ſee;
But ah! that Bleſſing is not left to me;
In vain theſe Eyes roll round in ſearch of Light,
For Oſſian's Eyes are quench'd in endleſs Night.
Down pours the Mountain Stream from yonder Source,
And round the green Hill forms its winding Courſe;
[6] Tufted with Moſs, four Stones their Tops uprear,
Above the wither'd Graſs; two Trees are near,
Their heavy Branches bent beneath the Storm;
Here ſleeps, dread Erragon, thy mould'ring Form!
Thee, Erragon, this narrow Houſe contains!
No more thy Shell reſounds thro' Sora's Plains;
No more wilt thou the Sword in Battle wield;
Dark in thy Hall, and uſeleſs hangs thy Shield;
Scarce is thy Blood upon our Mountains dry,
Sovereign of Ships—and low the Valiant lie.
Lov'ſt thou the Song, Son of the ſecret Cell;
Attend, while Lora's bloody Fight I tell;
Tho' long forgotten on the ſpacious Plain,
And ſcarce the Marks of ruthleſs War remain;
So when hoarſe Thunders bellow thro' the Sky,
A thouſand Spirits from the Caves reply,
Blue Lightnings round the Hills of Morven play,
Gleaming pale Horrors on the doubtful Day;
Gradual the Storm ſubſides, the Horizon clears,
A ſettled Calm the faded Landſcape cheers,
The golden Sun revives the drooping Iſle,
The rough Rocks glitter and the Mountains ſmile.
From Ullin's rolling Waves we ſteer'd our Way,
Our Ships now enter'd Cona's ſpacious Bay;
Looſe hung our Sails; we ſpurn'd the foaming Flood,
And heard the Tempeſt howl thro' Morven's Wood.
The King's Horn ſounds,—at once the ſtartled Deer,
Rous'd from their Coverts, fled the Danger near.
[7] Thick pour'd our Arrows, and the feſtal Board
Was ſoon with Choice of ſmoaking Viands ſtor'd;
Blith on the Rocks we revel'd in Delight,
Swaran, our mortal Foe, had fallen in Fight.
Two Heroes at the Feaſt had been forgot,
Their boſoms burn'd with Rage and blackening Thought;
In ſecret round they glanc'd their kindled Eyes,
Their Indignation ſpoke in burſting Sighs.
Cloſe they conferr'd, they threw their Spears to Earth;
Obſcuring, like two murky Clouds, our Mirth.
So on the ſettled Sea blue Miſts ariſe.
In vapory Volumes darkening to the Skies;
They glitter in the Sun; but Seamen fear
The Luſtre ſhort, and riſing Tempeſts near.
" Looſe my white Sails, we'll catch the Weſtern Breeze."
Maronnan ſpoke, "We'll plough the Northern Seas,
" We fought his Battles,—Aldo yet forgot
" At Fingal's Feaſt.—Since ſuch our injur'd Lot
" To Foreign Lands, we'll bear our martial Might,
" And ſtrengthen Erragon in dubious Fight;
" His Poſt is Terror, and his Eyes are Flame,
" War points his Spear, and Death attends his Name,
" His ecchoing Battles ſhall our Swords renown,
" And with immortal Wreaths of Glory crown."
Snatching their Swords and Shields, they quickly ſought,
Lumar's wiſh'd Bay, and to the Shore were brought,
Juſt as returning from the Chace was ſeen,
The chief of bounding Steeds, of haughty Mein.
[8] Gloom wrapp'd his Face, he murm'ring as he went,
A ſmother'd Song, ſeem'd loſt in dark Intent.
Gladly the Strangers at his Feaſts he ſaw,
And to his Foes their glittering Arms gave Law.
Brave Aldo once returning from the Fight,
Was ſeen by Lorma, Erragon's Delight,
His beauteous Wife,—and then in luckleſs Hour,
She firſt acknowledg'd Love's imperious Power.
Aldo ſhe ſaw, but like an Evening Sun,
Glancing an upward Beam, his Race now run;
Her Head ſhe lean'd on her right Arm reclin'd;
Her dark-brown Locks looſe floated in the Wind;
Still as ſhe look'd, high heav'd her Breaſts of Snow,
Quick throbb'd her Heart, and Tears unbidden flow;
The pearly Drop her new-born Paſſion ſpoke,
And in the Air in Sighs her Sorrows broke.
Three Days ſhe pin'd; diſſembled Joy her Grief
Conceal'd; the Fourth came wing'd with kind Relief,
The Hero claſp'd her in his vigorous Arms,
And o'er the briny Flood convey'd her Charms,
To Cona's Bay, to Fingal's lofty Tower;
There ſafe from Erragon's vindictive Power.
When lo! in Wrath, the King of Morven roſe,
And ſaid, "Shall I defend thee from thy Foes?
" What! ſhall Fingal a Raviſher befriend?
" Proud-hearted Aldo, how can I defend?
" Who will my People in their Halls receive?
" The Feaſt of Strangers who hereafter give?
[9] " Hence, Youth of feeble Hand, avoid the Brave!
" Thy Guilt conceal in ſome deſerted Cave,
" While we prepare with Sora's King to fight,
" Who threatens like black Tempeſts in the Night.
" Spirit of noble Trenmor, ſay ſhall Peace
" Ne'er bleſs my Age? Shall Fingal never ceaſe
" From War's Alarms? but born amid the Fight
" Muſt Blood his Progreſs mark to endleſs Night?
" Yet never were the Weak by me diſtreſt,
" Never my Sword the unequal Combat preſt.
" Oh! Morven, yes, thy raging Storms I know,
" In Time my ſtately Towers ſhall overthrow,
" When of my Children all in Battle ſlain,
" Nought but their Tombs ſhall on the Heath remain;
" When none ſurvive the noble Youths to mourn,
" When none in Selma's mouldering Shades ſojourn;
" Feeble in Arms, perhaps, a Race may come,
" Who ſcarce will know where riſes Fingal's Tomb;
" Yet in the Song ſhall flouriſh his Renown;
" In Song to future Times tranſmitted down."
As round the turbid Spirits of the Night,
Are ſummon'd to convene on Morven's Height,
The gath'ring Tempeſts in vindictive Hour,
Which he prepares on foreign Realms to pour.
Round Erragon, now landed on the Coaſt,
Embodied cloſe ſo roll'd his martial Hoſt,
While to the King of Shields his Bard he ſent,
Charging him thus to utter his Intent:
[10] " Tell him the Fight of Thouſands we demand;
" Or elſe Poſſeſſion of his hilly Land."
The Sovereign ſitting in his Hall was found,
The grave Companions of his Youth around;
For the young Heroes, Thunderbolts of War,
Were at the Chace, or in the Deſart far.
The Sages told what other Times had ſeen,
And what their Deeds in earlier Days had been:
When Narthmor, King of ſtreamy Lora came,
Strong, tho' in Years, and of illuſtrious Name.
" This is no Time," began the Chief, "to hear
" The Song of other Days, the Foe ſo near;
" Fierce Erragon advances on the Strand,
" And lifts ten thouſand Swords againſt the Land;
" Among his Chiefs he ſtalks with gloomy Pace,
" Like the dark Moon when Meteors ſhroud her Face."
" Come Daughter of my Love," then ſaid Fingal,
" Boſmina come from thy ſequeſter'd Hall.
" The rough War threatens; be it thine to ſave
" The Land from Blood, the Soldier from the Grave.
" To gallant Erragon this Meſſage bear,
" Say, "we for him the feſtal Board prepare;
" The Peace of Heroes we requeſt; and ſay,
" The Wealth of Aldo at his Feet we lay;
" Take thou the Stranger's Steeds,—they are not ſlow,
" Narthmor, and with the Maid of Morven go.
" Boſmina haſte, our Youths are diſtant far,
" And bending Age unequal is to War."
[11]
To Sora's gazing Bands Boſmina bright
Shone forth, as on a Cloud a Beam of Light;
Her left Hand with a ſparkling Shell was grac'd,
A Golden Arrow in her Right was plac'd.
As when the Solar Rays a Paſſage find,
Thro' envious Clouds, rent by the riſing Wind,
The Vale rejoices in the genial Heat,
Smiling the King advanced the Maid to meet.
Thus, mildly bluſhing, ſhe began to ſpeak,
" Thy Royal Preſence we in Selma ſeek;
" For thee the Feaſt is ſpread by Morven's King;
" I'll be thy Guide, provided Peace you bring.
" Liſten, fam'd Warrior, then to our Requeſt,
" Of Peace accept, and let the dark Sword reſt.
" The Wealth of Kings we offer, if you chuſe;
" Nor you to hear what Aldo ſays refuſe.
" An hundred Steeds he gives that own the Rein,
" Never a ſwifter Race devour'd the Plain.
" An hundred Maids from diſtant Lands he gives,
" Beneath the Sky not brighter Beauty lives.
" An hundred Hawks, all well inur'd to Game,
" Of which none Haggard, ever miſs'd their Aim.
" An hundred Girdles alſo ſhall be thine;
" Such when they round high-boſom'd Women twine,
" Gives ſudden Eaſe to Travails' fierceſt Throes,
" And their vaſt Virtue every Matron knows.
" Ten Shells with Gems inlaid, which ours we call,
" Shall Luſtre beam thro' Sora's lofty Hall;
[12] " Trembling upon their Stars, blue Waters ſhine,
" And to the Eye appear like ſparkling Wine.
" The World's great Kings, Lords of the diſtant Seas,
" Once quaff'd delicious Beverage from theſe.
" They all are thine;—or Lorma fair ſhall grace,
" Thy Tower again, and pant in thy Embrace.
" Tho' much Fingal the gen'rous Aldo loves,
" Thus Erragon, his Wiſh for Peace he proves;
" Fingal, who never did a Hero wrong,
" Never Injuſtice, tho' his Arm be ſtrong."
" Soft Voice of Cona," Sora's King reply'd,
" Tell him he does in vain the Feaſt provide,
" Unleſs he bow to my ſuperior Sway,
" And at my Feet his Spoils ſubmiſſive lay;
" The Shields of other Times let him reſign,
" And let me all his Fathers Swords call mine;
" Theſe, in my Hall, ſo ſhall my Sons behold,
" And ſay, "thoſe Arms were once Fingal's the bold."
" Never ſhall they behold them in thy Hall;
" Never ſo low ſhall Morven's Monarch fall;
" Still are they graſp'd by the firm Hand of Might,
" By Heroes who ne'er yielded in the Fight."
Boſmina ſpoke, by Patriot Pride alarm'd,
And kindling Paſſion all her Viſage warm'd.
" King of re-ecchoing Sora, too," ſhe ſaid,
" Thou art to Death by this thy Pride betray'd;
" For on our Hills the Storms begin to lower,
" Which muſt thy numerous Ranks and thee devour."
[13]
Now Selma's towering Walls Boſmina ſought,
Silent ſhe went, and Fingal read her Thought.
In Strength he roſe, his Silver Locks he ſhook;
The ſounding Mail of Trenmor then he took,
His Father's Shield.—Darkneſs o'er Selma ſpread,
When on his Spear his out-ſtretch'd Hand he laid.
Myriads of howling Ghoſts around were heard,
And many a gallant Hero's Fall was fear'd.
Stern Joy in each old Warrior's Viſage glows,
While on they preſs'd to meet their Country's Foes;
The Feats of former Times their Minds employ,
The Fame which thoſe who fall in War enjoy.
When, lo! the panting Dogs upon the Plain,
Were ſeen, where Trathail long in Duſt had lain.
Fingal then knew his youthful Heroes near,
And ſtopt the Thunder of his bold Career.
Firſt Oſcar,—Morni's Son,—and Nemis' Race,
Then Fercuth ſhew'd his cloudy Form and Face;
Dermid, his dark Hair ſporting in the Wind,
And Oſſian laſt, O! Stranger, came behind;
Propt by my Spear, I leapt each little Stream,
And ſung,—old Times and Actions paſt my Theme;
Of mighty Men I thought,—when near at Hand,
War's diſmal Din was eccho'd thro' the Land;
For hardy Fingal ſtruck his boſſy Shield,
A thouſand Swords unſheath'd wave o'er the Field;
Three grey-hair'd Sons of Song then lift the Voice
Of Harmony; a mournful Theme their Choice.
[14] With ſounding Step, in youthful Proweſs ſtrong,
Tremendous to the View, we ruſh'd along;
So pours impetuous thro' the narrow Vale,
The drifting Storm of Sleet, and driving Hail.
On the green Hill Fingal now ſat reclin'd,
His glittering Standard flutter'd in the Wind;
The tough Companions of his Youth were near,
Graceful their waving Locks of Age appear.
Now he beheld his Sons in War ariſe,
And heart-felt Pleaſure ſparkled in his Eyes;
For, midſt the Lightning of their Swords, he ſaw,
From their Forefathers Deeds they took their Law.
Like the fierce Torrent of a Wintry Night,
Stout Erragon advanc'd, of matchleſs Might,
Death track'd his Footſteps, whereſoe'er he came,
The Ranks were thin'd, as Heath's conſum'd by Flame.
" Who," ſays Fingal, "comes like the bounding Roe?
" The Hart which we in ecchoing Cona know?
" His bright Shield glitters on his manly Side,
" His Armor clangs, but mournful is his Pride.
" He meets with Erragon!—How big the Strife!—
" The Battle of the Chiefs!—they toil for Life!—
" So when in Air high rules the Tempeſt's Rage,
" In Combat fierce appalling Ghoſts engage.
" Son of the Hill, thou fall'ſt, diſtain'd with Blood;
" From thy white Boſom ſtreams Life's crimſon Flood.
" Ah! hapleſs Lorma, thy hard Fate deplore;
" Weep, wretched Woman, Aldo is no more."
[15]
The Hero's Spear the King of Sora took,
And on his Body caſt a pitying Look;
Round on the Foe his deathful Eyes then threw,
When Gaul came forth, to Virtue ever true.
Who can the Conflict of the Heroes tell?
Their wonderous Deeds!—the royal Stranger fell.
" Sons of lov'd Cona," loud brave Fingal cried,
" Hold Death's red Hand, and ſtop the purple Tide.
" For ah! the Great his laſt in Duſt has groan'd,
" And much in Sora is his Fall bemoan'd.
" The Traveller ſhall to his Hall repair,
" And wonder at the Silence reigning there;
" Stranger, the King is levell'd with the Duſt!
" His Houſe's Joy;—Who in their Strength may truſt!
" Hark!—a ſhrill Voice! quick thro' his Woods it paſs'd,
" Perhaps his Spirit that beſtrides the Blaſt.
" But he is diſtant far,—on Morven, low
" Fell Erragon beneath a foreign Foe."
Thus ſpoke Fingal; the tuneful Song of Peace
The Bard rais'd high,—the Swords from Slaughter ceaſe.
The feeble Foe was ſpar'd for better Days,
While added Glories round the *Sunbeam blaze.
Within that Tomb the conquer'd Chief we laid,
And I the Song of Lamentation made.
Oft o'er the Sky, when Night's dark Vapours come,
The Hero's mourning Ghoſt appears to ſome;
[16] Pale Sorrow, ſay they, on his Face impreſs'd,
And half-form'd Sighs ſeem labouring in his Breaſt.
Bleſt Sora's King, be thy departed Soul,
Thine Arm the Tide of Battle could controul.
Fair Lorma ſat, and faſt deſcended Night,
Thro' Aldo's Hall; a flaming Oak gave Light.
With Expectation big her Boſom burn'd,
Sad ſhe look'd out, but ſaw him not return'd.
" Where can my Joy, my Comfort, thus remain?
" Cona's lov'd Hunter! what can thee detain?
" You promis'd to return e'er ſetting Day,
" Has then the Deer been diſtant far away?
" Do the bleak Winds ſigh round thee on the Heath,
" Where murmuring Spirits guard their Bones beneath?
" Where is my Friend? Where, where my Aldo gone?
" Wherefore am I with Strangers left alone?
" My Aldo never yet neglectful prov'd!
" Come from thy ecchoing Hills, my beſt belov'd."
Oft to the Gate ſhe turns her ſwimming Eyes;
Oft liſtens as the ruſtling Breezes riſe;—
'Tis Aldo's Tread;—Joy lightens in her Face.—
It is not he!—How ſhort the ſmiling Space.
Now anxious Thoughts again her Viſage ſhroud,
As the pale Moon behind a watery Cloud.
" Return, my Love, nor thus my Hopes defraud,—
" Return, my Love.—Again I'll look abroad.
" Soft in the Eaſt the Queen of Stars is bright,
" And the calm Lake reflects her Silver Light.
[17] " Shall I not ſee his faithful Dogs appear?
" His faithful Dogs would tell my Hero near.
" When ſhall his well-known Accents, on the Wind,
" Tho' diſtant, loud, revive my penſive Mind?
" Come from thy towering Hills,—my Love, appear;—
" Thy Lorma calls;—he's ſilent—much I fear!"—
As when a Midnight Shower inveſts the Plain,
The Moon a duſky Beam darts thro' the Rain;
His ſhivering Ghoſt upon a Rock was ſeen,
The Shade ſhe follow'd o'er the gloomy Green;
For now ſhe knew the Hero was no more;
I heard her in the Wind her Fate deplore:
I heard her Mourning, like the Gales that paſs
Over yon Cave, that ſigh among the Graſs.
She came, ſhe found the Spot where Aldo lay,
Her Voice grew faint, and gradual died away:
Pale as the Vapor riſing o'er the Lake,
She roll'd her heavy Eyes, nor more ſhe ſpake.
Few were her Days in Cona, when ſhe died,
And Beauty's Bloſſom wither'd in its Pride.
Fingal commanded, and his Bards proclaim,
In melancholy Song her deathleſs Fame.
Morven's fair Daughters, once in every Year,
Drop o'er her Clay-cold Grave a pitying Tear,
When Autumn's Blaſts upon the Hills appear.
Son of the Land, far diſtant from our own,
Whoſe Dwelling is the Field of fair Renown,
[18] O let thy Song be ſometimes tun'd to thoſe
Who fell in Battle; thence their Fame aroſe.
So their thin Ghoſts around thee ſhall rejoice,
And on a Moon-beam Lorma hear thy Voice;
When in thy Cave thou lay'ſt thee down by Night,
Thou ſhalt behold her in the humid Light,
And thou wilt own, that ſhe indeed was fair,
Tho' wet her Cheek, and wan her Face with Care.
MORAR. A FRAGMENT.
THE Rain's diſpers'd, the Storm of Wind is paſt,
No more I ſhiver in the dreary Blaſt.
Calm is the Noon. The burning Lamp of Day
From Hill to Hill purſues his circling Way;
A riſing Rain-bow bends acroſs the Skies,
And fleecy Clouds diſplay their varying Dies;
Red pours the ſudden Stream o'er yonder Steep,
And thro' the Valley ſpreads with murm'ring Sweep:
How ſoftly plaintive ſounds it on mine Ear,
Yet ſofter far yon mourning Voice I hear.
'Tis Alpin's,—he in ſadly ſoothing Strain,
Laments ſome gallant Youth untimely ſlain.
Alpin, the Son of Song, his Head of Snow,
Bends under Age, and Tears his Eyes o'erflow.
Say, Son of Song, why on the ſilent Hill,
Theſe lonely Bounds thy ſad Complainings fill?
Why, like the Wave upon the deſart Shore,
Or Blaſts thro' wintry Woods do'ſt thou thy Fate deplore?
ALPIN.
[19]Ryno! my Friend! theſe heart-ſprung Tears are ſhed,
This Voice of Woe is rais'd, for Morar dead:
Tho' tall thy Stature on the Hill is ſeen,
And fair thy Beauty on the level Green,
Yet thou muſt fall like him, while all around
Thy Tomb—the Voice of Sorrow ſhall reſound:
Unſtrung thy Bow ſhall lie within the Hall,
Nor Echo from the Hills her Huntſman call.
Swift wer't thou, Morar, as the Mountain Roe,
Wrath o'er thy Face diffus'd a fiery Glow.
Deſcending furious as December Storm,
Thy Sword like Light'ning could the Field deform;
Thy Voice expreſs'd the Torrent after Rain,
And echo'd with Heaven's Thunder thro' the Plain.
Beneath his warrior Arm what Numbers fell,
Thou can'ſt, O Genius of my Country, tell!
His Arm mow'd down the Valiant and the Great,
As falls before the Scythe the ripen'd Wheat.
But how ſerene thy Brow, beheld afar
Returning mildly glorious from the War?
Thy Face appear'd the Sun when Rains ſubſide,
Or ſhone the gentler Moon at Midnight Tide;
Calm as the Boſom of the lucid Lake,
When not a whiſp'ring Breeze remains awake.
Alas! how narrow is thy Place become!
How low! how darkſome thine eternal Home!
Three Paces round out-meaſure now thy Grave,
O Morar! late the Mighty and the Brave.
[20] No other Witneſs of his Fame is ſeen,
Save three rude Stones, whoſe Tops are moſs'd with Green.
Beneath yon leafleſs ſolitary Tree,
Sad Emblem of decay'd Mortality,
Thro' the long Graſs, where moans the paſſing Wind,
The Grave of gallant Morar there you'll find.
Morar, the Mighty's fallen—he is no more—
No Mother's Sighs his hapleſs Fate deplore!
No Maid his Loſs bewails in plaintive Strains,
Nor pours out Tears of Love upon his cold Remains;
For Ah! the Dame is dead that gave him Birth,
And Morglan's lovely Daughter laid in Earth.
Who! who is he comes tott'ring o'er the Plain!
Scarce can his Staff his feeble Limbs ſuſtain!
Grief marks his furrow'd Face, his hoary Head
Is white with Age, his Eyes with Tears are red.
It is thy Father, Morar,—yes—'tis he—
Thy hopeleſs Father—he had none but thee—
Oft' when thy gallant Actions Fame has ſung
How o'er the Tale enraptur'd has he hung;
Yet Ah! 'till now he heard not of the Wound
That brought his Darling breathleſs to the Ground.
Long, like an Oak, he flouriſh'd on the Plains,
Ah! why this Blow to ſhatter his Remains?
Thy Son is deaf—weep, wretched Father weep—
Low lie the Dead, and heavy is their Sleep;
Their Pillow Earth, with them thro' one long Night
He ſleeps for ever raviſh'd from thy Sight.
For ever gone,—no more thy Voice to hear:-
That Voice that us'd his warlike Soul to cheer.
[21] When will the Morning of the Grave arrive,
To bid the Slumberer in the Duſt revive?
Thou braveſt of the Sons of Men, farewel!
Who could the Firſt in every Field excel.
The Field no more ſhall find thy Sword diſplay'd,
Whoſe Edge beam'd Lightning thro' the darkeſt Shade.
Thy Race is fallen,—no Son preſerves thy Name,
Yet ſhall this Verſe immortalize thy Fame!
And thy fair Deeds ſhall unborn Ages tell,
How mighty Morar liv'd! How fought! How fell!
The DIRGE. A FRAGMENT.
DARK Autumn reſts upon the Mountain's Brow,
While grey Miſts hover on the Hills below;
Loud o'er the barren Heath the Whirlwind howls,
Hoarſe thro' the narrow Plain the River rolls.
On yonder Mount, beneath the lonely Shade
Of that old Oak, are Connal's Aſhes laid:
The wither'd Leaf, firſt whirl'd awhile in Air,
Quits the light Breeze, and, mourning, ſettles there.
Round, when the Silver Regent of the Night
Rules Heav'n's high Vault, and pours her ſofter Light,
In her pale Beams departed Spirits play,
Too weak to bear the ſtronger Blaze of Day,
And by the lonely Hunter oft are ſeen,
As, muſing, ſlow he ſtalks along the Green.
Who, Connal, to their Source, thy Sires can trace?
Who can recount the Fathers of thy Race?
[22] Like the ſtout Oak, that on the Mountain Side,
Meets the loud Storm, and braves its furious Pride,
Firm ſtood their Ranks upon the burniſh'd Field,
And taught the boldeſt of their Foes to yield.
Uptorn thy Root, beneath the Turf you lie,—
Who, mighty Connal, ſhall thy Place ſupply?
Here claſh'd the warrior Arms, and here around
The Dying groan'd, who ſtrew'd the guilty Ground.
Here Connal fell,—with Mourning and Diſmay
The Wars of Fingal mark'd the bloody Day.
Thy Arm was like a Tempeſt from the North;
Like Lightning gleam'd thy Falchion when drawn forth;
Thy Height, a Rock did on the Plain appear;
Thine Eyes, a fiery Furnace flaming near:
Louder than fighting Winds thy Voice was found,
Scattering Confuſion wild the Vallies round.
The Strongeſt by thy Valour were o'erthrown,
As a Boy's Staff hews tender Thiſtles down.
Dargo, the Chief, ambitious, fierce, and proud,
Advanc'd, like an impending Thunder-Cloud;
Dargo the Strong, who never miſs'd his Blow,
Dark and contracted was his ſullen Brow;
His Eyes were like two Caves within a Rock;
Bright roſe their Swords, and fearful was the Shock.
Behind, in Armour bright, Crimora fair,
Came watchful on, old Rinval's Orphan-Care;
Bent was her Bow, and looſe her curling Hair.
Long had ſhe ſigh'd for Connal's manly Charms
And him ſhe ſought amid the Din of Arms;
[23] At Dargo's Heart ſhe aim'd the erring Shaft,
And her lov'd Connal's deareſt Blood it quaff'd.
He falls,—as on the Plain a mighty Oak,
Or a rough Rock from its Foundation broke.
He bleeds,—unhappy Maid!—yet no Relief!
Her Connal dies!—Verſe cannot paint her Grief!
What ſhall ſhe do?—the long, long Night ſhe mourns,—
Deteſted Day, all comfortleſs, returns.
" My Love, my Friend," ſhe cries,—"his Soul is fled,
" In vain you weep! no Tears awake the Dead.'
Woe-worn, at length Death gives her Anguiſh reſt,
And her laſt Breath ſhe pours on Connal's Breaſt.
Inclos'd they peaceful lie within this Tomb,
Both in the Pride of Youth, and Beauty's Bloom:
Upſprings the Graſs beneath the unletter'd Stone,
While mournful in the Shade I ſit alone,
And hear the ſighing Wind their Fate bemoan:
Full, then, their Memory pours upon my Mind;
Where ſhall the Muſe, alas! their Fellow find?
Now undiſturb'd, together ye may ſleep,
Sacred the Mountain Tomb your Bones ſhall keep.
CONNAL and CRIMORA. An ELEGY.
CRIMORA.
WHO, who is he, that ſkirts the Hill afar,
In Courſe effulgent as the Morning Star;
Or as a Weſtern Cloud in bright Array,
Ting'd by the Flame of faſt-deſcending Day?
[24] Loud as the hollow Wind his Voice I hear!
Sweet as the Song of Carryl to the Ear!
It is my Love, encas'd with ſhining Steel;
What Joys, what Bliſs ineffable, I feel!
Short-liv'd, I fear; for Sorrow ſhades his Face,—
Say, Connal, lives great Fingal's hardy Race?
Why the dark Brow?—To me thy Woes impart;—
Ah! they already tear my troubled Heart?
CONNAL.
They live, my Love.—Two Hours had paſs'd of Morn,
When I beheld them from the Chace return.
They croſs'd like ſtreaming Light o'er yonder Fields,
The Solar Ray reflected from their Shields:
I ſaw them in a Line the Hill deſcend.—
Some ſad Event, my Love, the Times portend:
Fate has this melancholy Gloom impreſs'd,
And Sighs unwonted heave my boding Breaſt!
Give me my Arms;—The Task of War be mine,—
Our Youth are up; in Armour claſp'd they ſhine.
To-morrow Dargo comes to try our Force;
Dire will the Conflict be, and red the warring Courſe.
Enormous Dargo comes, renown'd for Might,
He calls the Race of Fingal to the Fight;
The Sons of Wounds and Battle he defies,
And claſhing Arms ſhall thunder thro' the Skies.
CRIMORA.
As grey Miſts thicken in autumnal Air,
On the big Waves I ſaw his Sails appear;
[25] I ſaw his Veſſels anchor near the Strand,
And ſoon the mighty Dargo came to Land,
And all his warlike Train, a num'rous Band.
CONNAL.
They ſhall repent they touch'd this warlike Shore;
Bring me the Shield the Soldier Rinval wore;
Thy Father's Buckler.—Thus with livid Light,
The Moon full orb'd, gleams thro' the wintry Night.
CRIMORA.
This Shield, O Connal, to thine Arm I bind;
Yet, oh! retain old Rinval's Fate in mind:
For no Defence in this my Father found,
But bit in Agonies of Death the Ground.
Here pierc'd ſtern Gauror's Spear,—the Warrior fell!
And who, my Connal, who thy Fate can tell?
CONNAL.
Yes,—I may fall, indeed; if ſuch my Fate:
Remember, Glory ſhorten'd Connal's Date.
Raiſe thou my Tomb,—ſo ſhall my Fame ſurvive,
Kept by the gentle Hand of Love alive.
A Mound of Earth, or ruſtic Pile of Stones,
May mark the Grave that covers Connal's Bones.
Tho' thou, Crimora, to my doating Sight,
Art dearer far than to the Blind is Light;
Tho' far leſs Pleaſure wafts the Summer Gale,
To him who toils inceſſant at the Flail;
[26] Tho' the parch'd Pilgrim in the Chryſtal Brook,
Leſs Comfort finds than I in one dear Look;
Yet I will go,—my Country calls to Arms,—
Her Parent Voice more ſtrong than Beauty's Charms.
Adieu, Crimora!—hence, appalling Gloom,—
If I ſhould fall,—Crimora, raiſe my Tomb.
CRIMORA.
The martial Glow I ſympathetic feel;
Give me thoſe Arms, the Sword, the Lace of Steel.
I'll face, my Love, with thee, fierce Dargo's Pow'r;
And aid my Connal in the doubtful Hour.
Farewel, ye Rocks of Ardven!—I no more
Shall from your Summit hear the Ocean roar;
No more ſhall hear the Hunter's chearing Horn,
Rouſing dull Eccho with the riſing Morn.
Farewel, ye Deer, that on the Mountain Side
Crop the brown Heath, or in the Fern abide.
Farewel, ye numerous Streams, that down the Hill
Sooth'd my ſad Hours with many a pleaſing Rill.
No more ſhall we return.—The Voice of War
Loud calls to Arms:—Our Tombs are diſtant far.
The APPARITION. An ELEGY.
UPON this Hill, where conſtant raves the Wind,
Cloſe by a Fountain's Murmur ſweet reclin'd,
I liſtening lie, while o'er my drooping Head
A ſingle Tree ſpreads ſolitary Shade.
[27] Deep rolls the River thro' the blaſted Heath;
The Lake with troubled Waters ſwell beneath:
Swift down the Hill the motly Tribe deſcend;
No whiſtling Cowherds nigh at hand attend.
No Hunter's Horn alarms the diſtant Hill;
Tho' Noon, the Scene is ſilent all and ſtill.
Sad as the Dove, when by its Mate forlorn,
Alone I ſit, the long, long Day, and mourn.
How pleaſant would the barren Heath appear,
If the lov'd Miſtreſs of my Heart were near,
With her curl'd Treſſes floating looſe behind;
While her ſoft Boſom kiſs'd the paſſing Wind,
But, ah! the Wind, unwilling thence to part,
Might bolt with treble Bars of Ice her Heart.
She mourns her Friends that lie beneath the Hill;
The Tears I'll wipe that from thine Eyes diſtil;
And to thy Father's Houſe while thee I bring,
Sweet Comfort in my Charmer's Ear I'll ſing.
Ha! is it ſhe that yonder beams like Light,
Or the full Lunar Orb in Autumn bright?
The Sun, juſt riſing o'er a Summer Storm,
Leſs ſplendid ſeems than her delicious Form.
She ſpeaks,—but, ah! her Voice how weak and low!
As thro' the marſhy Reeds ſoft Breezes blow.
SHE.
Return'ſt thou ſafe, my Shilric, from the War?
Where are thy Friends, my Love? they travell'd far.
Of thy Deſtruction on the Hill they tell;
I heard, and wept inceſſant that you fell.
HE.
[28]Yes, I return, my Love, and I alone;
Of all my Race beſide ſurviveth none.
No more they'll bleſs them in your ſunny Eyes!
Their Graves I pil'd,—on yonder Plain they riſe.
But on the barren Turf, why, prithee, ſay,
Why o'er the deſart Hill alone do'ſt ſtray?
SHE.
Tho', Shilric, o'er the Hill thou ſee'ſt me roam,
My Bones are hears'd in their eternal Home:
Clos'd in the wintry Houſe of Death I lie;
Grief, for thy Loſs, drank all my Vitals dry.
HE.
Yet hear, Vinella, ah! ſhe glides away,
Like the grey Dawn before the riſing Day.
But one Word more, my Love, and then depart,—
Behold theſe Tears, the Offspring of my Heart;
I fear 'twill break,—'tis wrung with conſtant Grief,—
A Look, a Word, will waft ſome kind Relief.
When living, fairer than the Light wer't thou;
But pale and ghaſtly are thy Beauties now.
Her brooding Wings ſhould awful Silence ſpread,
Dwell in the Gale ſuſpended o'er my Head,
Thence my ſad Soul with ſofteſt Accents chear;
Thy well-known Voice I could for ever hear;
Come on the Mountain Blaſt, and with the Sound,
Diſperſe the Mid-Day Silence hovering round.
For on the Summit will I ſit alone,
And by the moſſy murmuring Fountain moan.
FINIS.
Notes
*
The Standard of Fingal was called the Sunbeam, from its being richly adorned with Jewels.
- Zitationsvorschlag für dieses Objekt
- TextGrid Repository (2020). TEI. 3457 The battle of Lora A poem With some fragments written in the Erse or Irish language by Ossian the son of Fingal Translated into English verse by Mr Derrick. University of Oxford Text Archive. . https://hdl.handle.net/21.T11991/0000-001A-619F-4