The rocks are gray on the steep, I see him not on the brow. His dogs come not before him, with tidings of his near approach. Here I must sit alone! "Who lie on the heath beside me? Are they my love, and my brother? Speak to me, O my friends! To Colma they give no reply. Speak to me; I am alone! My soul is tormented with fears! Ah! they are dead! Their swords are red from the fight. O my brother! my brother! why hast thou slain my Salgar? why, O Salgar! hast thou slain my brother? Dear were ye both to me! what shall I say in your praise? Thou wert fair on the hill among thousands! he was terrible in fight. Speak to me; hear my voice; hear me, sons of my love! They are silent; silent for ever! Cold, cold, are their breasts of clay! Oh! from the rock on the hill, from the top of the windy steep, speak, ye ghosts of the dead! speak, I will not be afraid! Whither are ye gone to rest? In what cave of the hill shall I find the departed? No feeble voice is on the gale: no answer half-drowned in the storm! "I sit in my grief; I wait for morning in my tears! Rear the tomb, ye friends of the dead. Close it not till Colma come. My life flies away like a dream: why should I stay behind? Here shall I rest with my friends, by the stream of the sounding rock. When night comes on the hill; when the loud winds arise; my ghost shall stand in the blast, and mourn the death of my friends. The hunter shall hear from his booth. He shall fear but love my voice! For sweet shall my voice be for my friends: pleasant were her friends to Colma! "Our tears descended for Colma, and our souls were sad," saith Ossian; and well they might for nothing can be more mournful than thy song, Minona. Then came Ullin with his harp, and he gave the song of Alpin. In former days he had overheard Alpin and Ryno on the hill singing the fall of Morar, and had received the song into his heart. Now they both rest in the narrow house-and Minona's eyes are full of tears---the sister of car-borne Morar. "She retired from the song of Ullin, like the moon in the west, when she foresees the shower, and hides her fair head in a cloud. I touched the harp with Ullin; the song of mourning rose." "Ryno. The wind and the rain are past: calm is the noon of day. The clouds are divided in heaven. Over the green hills flies the inconstant sun. Red through the stony vale comes down the stream of the hill. Sweet are thy murmurs, O stream! but more sweet is the voice I hear. It is the voice of Alpin, the son of song, mourning for the dead! Bent is his head of age; red his tearful eye. Alpin, thou son of song, why alone on the silent hill? why complainest thou, as a blast in the wood; as a wave on the lonely shore? "Alpin. My tears, O Ryno! are for the dead; my voice for those that have passed away. Tall thou art on the hill; fair among the sons of the vale. But thou shalt fall like Morar; the mourner shall sit on thy tomb. The hills shall know thee no more; thy bow shall lie in the hall unstrung! "Thou were swift, O Morar! as a roe on the desert; terrible as a meteor of fire. Thy wrath was as the storm. Thy sword in battle, as lightning in the field. Thy voice was a stream after rain; like thunder on distant hills. Many fell by thy arm; they were consumed in the flames of thy wrath. But when thou didst return from war, how peaceful was thy brow! Thy face was like the sun after rain; like the moon in the silence of night; calm as the breast of the lake when the loud wind is laid. "Narrow is thy dwelling now! dark the place of thine abode! With three steps I compass thy grave, O thou who wast so great before! Four stones, with their heads of moss, are the only memorial of thee. A tree with scarce a leaf, long grass, which whistles in the wind, mark to the hunter's eye the grave of the mighty Morar. Morar! thou art low indeed! Thou hast no mother to mourn thee; no maid with her tears of love. Dead is she that brought thee forth. Fallen is the daughter of Morglan. "Who on his staff is this? who is this whose head is white with age; whose eyes are red with tears; who quakes at every step? It is thy father, O Morar! the father of no son but thee. He heard of thy fame in war; he heard of foes dispersed. He heard of Morar's renown; why did he not hear of his wound? Weep, thou father of Morar! weep; but thy son heareth thee not. Deep is the sleep of the dead; low their pillow of dust. No more shall he hear thy voice; no more awake at thy 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 field shall see thee no more: nor the dark wood be lightened with the splendour of thy steel. Thou hast left no son. The song shall preserve thy name. Future times shall hear of thee; they shall hear of the fallen Morar! "When shall it be morn in the grave, to bid the slumberer awake?" is sublime, and was probably in Beattie's mind when he wrote "But when shall spring visit the mouldering urn? Oh, when shall it dawn on the night of the grave? Ha! we are startled to see these lines quoted by Laing, and remarked on with a true and fine feeling." The 'spring' dawning, instead of the morning'on' the night of the grave' is certainly no improvement." But what can the man mean by this? Alpin says "Weep, thou father of Morar! weep, but thy son heareth thee not. Deep is the sleep of the dead; low their pillow of dust. No more shall he hear thy voice-no more awake at thy call!" This lamentation, he affirms, is an imitation At the close of the song of Alpin, the grief of all arose, but most the bursting sigh of Armin for he remembered the death of his son, who fell in the days of his youth. Why art thou sad, O Armin, chief of seasurrounded Gorma? asked Carmor, the chief of the echoing Galmal. "Sad I am! nor small is my cause of woe! Carmor, thou hast lost no son; thou hast lost no daughter of beauty. Colgar the valiant lives; and Annira, fairest maid. The boughs of thy house ascend, O Carmor; but Armin is the last of his race. Dark is thy bed, O Daura! deep thy sleep in the tomb! When shalt thou awake with thy songs? with all thy voice of music? "Arise, winds of autumn, arise; blow along the heath! streams of the mountains, roar! roar, tempests, in the groves of my oaks! walk through broken clouds, O moon! show thy pale face, at intervals! bring to my mind the night, when all my children fell! when Arindal the mighty fell! when Daura the lovely failed! Daura, my daughtér! thou wert fair; fair as the moon on Fura; white as the driven snow; sweet as the breathing gale. Arindal, thy bow was strong. Thy spear was swift in the field. Thy look was like mist on the wave: thy shield, a red cloud in a storm. Armar, renowned in war, came, and sought Daura's love. He was not long refused: fair was the hope of their friends! "Erath, son of Odgal, repined: his brother had been slain by Armar. He came disguised like a son of the sea: fair was his skiff on the wave; white his locks of age; calm his serious brow. Fairest of women, he said, lovely daughter of Armin! a rock not distant in the sea bears a tree on its side; red shines the fruit afar! There Armar waits for Daura. I come to carry his love! She went; she called on Armar. Nought answered, but the son of the rock. Armar, my love! my love! why tormentest thou me with fear! hear, son of Arnart, hear: it is Daura who calleth thee! Erath the traitor fled laughing to the land. She lifted up her voice; she called for her brother and her father. Arindal! Armin! none to relieve your Daura! Arindal "Her voice came over the sea. my son descended from the hill; rough in the spoils of the chase. His arrows rattled by his side; his bow was in his hand: five dark gray dogs attended his steps. He saw fierce Erath on the shore: he seized and bound him to an oak. Thick wind the thongs of the hide around his limbs: he loads the wind with his groans. Arindal ascends the deep in his boat, to bring Daura to land. Armar came in his wrath, and let fly the gray-feathered shaft. It sunk, it sunk in thy heart, O Arindal, my son! for Erath the traitor thou diedst. The oar is stopped at once; he panted on the rock and expired. What is thy grief, O Daura, when round thy feet is poured thy brother's blood! The boat is broken in twain. Armar plunges into the sea, to rescue his Daura, or die. Sudden a blast from the hill came over the waves. He sunk, and he rose no more. All "Alone, on the seabeat rock, my daughter was heard to complain. Frequent and loud were her cries. What could her father do? All night I stood on the shore. I saw her by the faint beam of the moon. night I heard her cries. Loud was the wind; the rain beat hard on the hill. Before morning appeared, her voice was weak. It died away, like the evening breeze among the grass of the rocks: Spent with grief she expired; and left thee, Armin, alone. Gone is my strength in war! fallen my pride among women! When the storms aloft arise; when the north lifts the wave on high; I sit by the sounding shore, and look on the fatal rock. Often by the setting moon, I see the ghosts of my children. Half viewless, they walk in mournful conference together. Will none of you speak in pity? They do not regard their father. I am sad, "Such were the words of the bards in the days of song; when the king heard the music of harps, the tales of other times! The chiefs gathered from all their hills, and heard the lovely sound. They praised the voice of Cona! the first among a thousand bards! but age is now on my tongue; my soul has failed: I hear, at times, the ghosts of bards, and learn their pleasant song. But memory fails on my mind. I hear the call of years; they say, as they pass along, Why does Ossian sing? Soon shall he lie in the narrow house, and no bard shall raise his fame! Roll on, ye dark brown years; ye bring no joy on your course! Let the tomb open to Ossian, for his strength has failed. The sons of song are gone to rest. My voice remains, like a blast, that roars, lonely, on a sea-surrounded rock, after the winds are laid. The dark moss whistles there; the distant mariner sees the waving trees!" Carthon is a noble strain, and contains some of the finest descriptions in all Ossian. Clessammor, an uncle of Fingal by the mother's side, had been driven by a storm into the river Clyde, on the banks of which stood Balclutha, "a town belonging to the Britons within the walls." Here he marries Moina, daughter of Reuthamir, a chief; but is driven away in his ship soon after his nuptials by Reuda, a Briton, who was in love with Moina. Moina, who had been left with child, brought forth a son, and soon after died and he is reared by Reuthamir, and called Carthon, the murmur of the waves, from the storm which carried off Clessammor, who was supposed to have been cast away. In Carthon's childhood Balclutha had been burnt by Comhal, Fingal's father, and having come to man's estate, he resolves to avenge its fate on the posterity of the destroyer. He invades Morvern, and, after defeating two of Fingal's heroes, is killed in single combat by his own father Clessammor. In this poem occurs the celebrated description, " I have seen the walls of Balclutha, but they were desolate," &c. of itself, in its scriptural sublimity, sufficient to immortalize its poet. "Carthon stood on a rock: he saw the hero rushing on. He loved the dreadful joy of his face: his strength in the locks of age! 'Shall I lift that spear,' he said, * that never strikes but once a foe? Or shall I, with the words of peace, preserve the warrior's life? Stately are his steps of age! lovely the remnant of his years! Perhaps it is the husband of Moina, the father of car-borne Carthon. Often have I heard that he dwelt at the echoing stream of Lora.' "Such were his words when Clessam- mor came, and lifted high his spear. "It will be great, thou son of pride! began the tall Clessammor. I have been renowned in battle, but I never told my name to a foe. Yield to me, son of the wave, then shalt thou know that the mark of my sword is in many a field. ' I never yielded, king of spears!' replied the noble pride of Carthon: 'I have also fought in war, I behold my future fame. Despise me not, thou chief of men! my arm, my spear is strong. Retire among thy friends; let younger heroes fight.' Why dost thou wound my soul? replied Ciessammor with a tear. Age does not tremble on my hand. I still can lift the sword. Shall I fly in Fingal's sight, in the sight of him I love? Son of the sea! I never fled: exalt thy pointed spear. 66 They fought, like two contending winds, that strive to roll the wave. Fingal saw Clessammor low: he moved in the sound of his steel. The host stood silent in his presence: they turned their eyes to the king, He came like the sullen noise of a storm before the winds arise: the hunter hears it in the vale, and retires to the cave of the rock. Carthon stood in his place, the blood is rushing down his side; he saw the coming down of the king, his hopes of fame arose, but pale was his cheek: his hair flew loose, his helmet shook on high: the force of Carthon failed, but his sword was strong. "Fingal heheld the hero's blood; he stopt the uplifted spear. 'Yield, king of swords!' said Comhal's son, 'I behold thy blood; thou hast been mighty in battle, and thy fame shall never fade.' Art thou the king so far renowned? replied the carborne Carthon; art thou that light of death that frightens the kings of the world? But why should Carthon ask? for he is like the stream of his hills, strong as a river in his course, swift as the eagle of heaven. O that I had fought with the king, that my fame might be great in song! that the hunter, beholding my tomb, might say, he fought with the mighty Fingal. But Carthon dies unknown: he has poured out his force on the weak. "But thou shalt not die unknown, replied the king of woody Morven: my bards are many, O Carthon! their songs descend to future times. The children of years to come shall hear the fame of Carthon, when they sit round the burning oak, and the night is spent in songs of old. The hunter, sitting in the heath, shall hear the rustling blast, and, raising his eyes, behold the rock where Carthon fell. He shall turn to his son, and show the place where the mighty fought: 'There the king of Balclutha fought, like the strength of a thousand streams.' The "Joy rose in Carthon's face; he lifted his heavy eyes. He gave his sword to Fingal, to lie within his hall, that the memory of Balclutha's king might remain in Morven. The battle ceased along the field, the bard had sung the song of peace. chiefs gathered round the falling Carthon: they heard his words with sighs. Silent they leaned on their spears, while Balclutha's hero spoke. His hair sighed in the wind, and his voice was sad and low. "King of Morven, Carthon said, 'I fall in the midst of my course. A foreign tomb receives, in youth, the last of Reuthamir's race. Darkness dwells in Balclutha; the shadows of grief in Crathmo. But raise my remembrance on the banks of Lora, where my fathers dwelt. Perhaps the husband of Moina will mourn over his fallen Carthon.' His words reached the heart of Clessammor: he fell in silence on his son. The host stood darkened around: no voice is on the plain. Night came the moon, from the east, looked on the mournful field; but still they stood, like a silent grove that lifts its head on Gormal, when the loud winds are laid, and dark autumn is on the plain. "Three days they mourned above Carthon; on the fourth his father died. In the narrow plain of the rock they lie; a dim ghost defends their tomb. There lovely Moina is often seen, when the sunbeam darts on the rock, and all around is dark. There she is seen, Malvina; but not like the daughters of the hill. Her robes are from the stranger's land, and she is still alone! "Fingal was sad for Carthon; he commanded his bards to mark the day when shadowy autumn returned; and often did they mark the day, and sing the hero's praise. 'Who comes so dark from ocean's roar, like autumn's shadowy cloud? Death is trembling in his hand! his eyes are flames of fire! Who roars along dark Lora's heath? Who but Carthon, king of swords! The people fall! see how he strides, like the sullen ghost of Morven! But there he lies a goodly oak, which sudden blasts overturned! When shalt thou rise, Balclutha's joy? When, Carthon, shalt thou arise? Who comes so dark from ocean's roar, like autumn's shadowy cloud? Such were the words of the bards in the day of their mourning; Ossian often joined their voice, and added to their song. My soul has been mournful for Carthon: he fell in the days of his youth: and thou, O Clessammor! where is thy dwelling in the wind? Has the youth forgot his wound? Flies he on clouds with thee? I feel the sun, O Malvina! leave me to my rest. Perhaps they may come to my dreams; I think I hear a feeble voice! The beam of heaven delights to shine on the grave of Carthon: I feel it warm around! "O thou that rollest above, round as the shield of my fathers! Whence are thy beams, O sun! thy everlasting light? Thou comest forth in thy awful beauty; the stars hide themselves in the sky; the moon cold and pale, sinks in the western wave; but thou thyself movest alone. Who can be a companion of thy course? The oaks of the mountains fall; the mountains themselves decay with years; the ocean shrinks and grows again; the moon herself is lost in heaven: but thou art forever the same, rejoicing in the brightness of thy course. When the world is dark with tempests, when thunder rolls and lightning flies, thou lookest in thy beauty from the clouds, and laughest at the storm. But to Ossian thou lookest in vain, for he beholds thy beams no more: whether thy yellow hair flows on the eastern clouds, or thou tremblest at the gates of the west. But thou art, perhaps, like me, for a season: thy years will have an end. Thou shalt sleep in thy clouds, careless of the voice of the morning. Exult then, O sun! in the strength of thy youth! age is dark and unlovely; it is like the glimmering light of the moon, when it shines through broken clouds, and the mist is on the hills: the blast of the north is on the plain, the traveller shrinks in the midst of his journey." All this, from beginning to end, we maintain, is poetry; the concluding famous address to the sun the very highest poetry-and you, who have sense and soul of your own, will, we are confident, continue to think and feel it to be so, notwithstanding all the scorn that has been heaped against it, because of its resemblance to something glorious in Milton. Homer was blind, and Milton was blind-Ossian could not help that and he was blind too-without meaning the least in the world to be like them " in old age and the loss of eyes." As for Lucifer, he is not blind (we wish he were), and surely he may hate the beams of the sun, and say so till he is tired, in Miltonic blanks, as Tweedie calls them, without standing in the way of honest men's addresses to that luminary, whether presented by a Celt in the second, or a Saxon in the eighteenth century, and graciously accepted. No man was ever less like Lucifer after his fall out of the skylight than Ossian. Is his address to the sun natural? It is. How the devil, then, can it be like the Devil's? But it may be like Milton's? Yea -not merely may-but must! "Το Ossian thou look'st in vain; for he beholds thy beams no more; whether thy yellow hair flows on the eastern clouds, or thou tremblest at the gates of the west." "But thou Revisitest not those eyes that roll in vain To find thy piercing light." And so on. Just shut your eyes, delightful reader, and imagine them out. Muse a few minutes, and then effuse an unpremeditated address to the sun. Ay-there you murmur. Why, you are repeating Ossian's very words-Milton's very words_ the words of every blind man that, since the creation, has saluted the morn. But, if published, would it prove equally affecting to the whole human race, as "Hail! holy light! offspring of Heaven's First-born," &c. Or, "O Thou that rulest above," &c. Send it to Blackwood, that all the world may judge. You pause, and hint that the subject is exhausted. What! the Sun? No, no-not the Sun. What then? Why, the subject. Well, then the subject-but when, and by whom? But we are pressing you too hard-you are an excellent creature, but no geniusso shut you mouth, and open your eyes, and whatever you may think of the authenticity, believe in the inspiration, of Ossian's poems. Young hearts, we verily believe, are now-a-days the same as young hearts some fifty years ago, and often weep for Ossian. Not that he is blind, for they know that the blind may be perfectly happy-but because he is alone in this world. Throughout all his poetry they have a dim consciousness of thinking on himself-even when the song kindles into a brightest flame, they feel that the singer is sorrowful the sadness, the humiliation of the present, hang over the gladness, the glory, of the past-his life is almost death-like-a shadow on earth holding converse with shadows in the sky-moving from grave to grave so like one of themselves, as not to disturb the phantoms sitting there in the moonlight! "Dost thou not behold, Malvina, a rock with its head of heath? Three aged pines bend from its face: green is the narrow plain at its feet. Two stones, half sunk in the ground, show their heads of moss. The deer of the mountain avoids the place; for he beholds a dim ghost standing there. The mighty lie, O Malvina, in the narrow plain of the rock." We Malvina! The name is sweet, but she is more than a name - but for her Ossian would soon be dead. see her-always-at his side, or sitting a little way aloof-now a shadow-now a sunbeam-silence or music, still his only comfort; if for a while out of sight and out of hearing, never for one moment out of memory. "Pleasant is thy song in Ossian's ear, daughter of streamy Lutha!" ""It was the voice of my love! seldom art thou in the dreams of Malvina! Open your airy halls, O fathers of Toscar of shields! Unfold the gates of your clouds : the steps of Malvina are near. I have heard a voice in my dream. I feel the fluttering of my soul. Why didst thou come, O blast! from the dark-rolling face of the lake? Thy rustling wing was in the tree; the dream of Malvina fled. But she beheld her love, when his robe of mist flew on the wind. A sunbeam was on his skirts, they glittered like the gold of the stranger. It was the voice of my love! seldom comes he to my dreams! "But thou dwellest in the soul of Malvina, son of mighty Ossian! My sighs arise with the beam of the east; my tears descend with the drops of night. I was a lovely tree, in thy presence, Oscar, with all my branches round me; but thy death |