English Literature For Boys and Girls | Page 9

very angry with and rude to each other. Still that did
not settle the question as to who had written the stories; indeed it has never been settled.
And what most men believe now is that Macpherson did really gather from among the
people of the Highlands many scraps of ancient poetry and tales, but that he added to
them and put them together in such a way as to make them beautiful and touching. To do
even that, however, a true poet was needed, so people have, for the most part, given up
arguing about whether Macpherson wrote Ossian or not, and are glad that such a
beautiful book has been written by some one.
I do not think that you will want to read Ossian for yourself for a long time to come, for
the stories are not always easy to follow. They are, too, often clumsy, wandering, and
badly put together. But in spite of that there is much beauty in them, and some day I hope
you will read them.
In the next chapter you will find one of the stories of Ossian called Fingal. Fingal was a
great warrior and the father of Ossian, and the story takes place in Ireland. It is told partly
in Macpherson's words.



Chapter V
THE STORY OF FINGAL
"CATHULLIN sat by TURA's wall, by the tree of the rustling sound. His spear leaned
against a rock. His shield lay on grass, by his side. And as he thus sat deep in thought a
scout came running in all haste and cried, 'Arise! Cathullin, arise! I see the ships of the
north. Many, chief of men, are the foe! Many the heroes of the sea-born Swaran!'
"Then to the scout the blue-eyed chief replied, 'Thou ever tremblest. Thy fears have
increased the foe. It is Fingal King of deserts who comes with aid to green Erin of
streams.'
"'Nay, I beheld their chief,' replied the scout, 'tall as a glittering rock. His spear is a

blasted pine. His shield the rising moon. He bade me say to thee, "Let dark Cathullin
yield."'
"'No,' replied the blue-eyed chief, 'I never yield to mortal man. Dark Cathullin shall be
great or dead.'"
Then Cathullin bade the scout summon his warriors to council. And when they were
gathered there was much talk, for some would give battle at once and some delay until
Fingal, the King of Morven, should come to aid them. But Cathullin himself was eager to
fight, so forward they marched to meet the foe. And the sound of their going was "as the
rushing of a stream of foam when the thunder is traveling above, and dark-brown night
sits on half the hill." To the camp of Swaran was the sound carried, so that he sent a
messenger to view the foe.
"He went. He trembling, swift returned. His eyes rolled wildly round. His heart beat high
against his side. His words were faltering, broken, slow. 'Arise, son of ocean! arise, chief
of the dark brown shields! I see the dark, the mountain stream of battle. Fly, King of
ocean! Fly!'
"'When did I fly?' replied the King. 'When fled Swaran from the battle of spears? When
did I shrink from danger, chief of the little soul? Shall Swaran fly from a hero? Were
Fingal himself before me my soul should not darken in fear. Arise, to battle my thousands!
pour round me like the echoing main. Gather round the bright steel of your King; strong
as the rocks of my land, that meet the storm with joy, and stretch their dark pines to the
wind.'
"Like autumn's dark storms, pouring from two echoing hills, towards each other
approached the heroes. Like two deep streams from high rocks meeting, mixing, roaring
on the plain; loud, rough and dark in battle meet Lochlin and Innis-fail. chief mixes his
strokes with chief, and man with man; steel clanging sounds on steel. Helmets are cleft
on high. Blood bursts and smokes around. Strings murmur on the polished yews. Darts
rush along the sky, spears fall like the circles of light which gild the face of night. As the
noise of the troubled ocean when roll the waves on high, as the last peal of thunder in
heaven, such is the din of war. Though Cormac's hundred bards were there to give the
fight to song, feeble was the voice of a hundred bards to send the deaths to future times.
For many were the deaths of heroes; wide poured the blood of the brave."
Then above the clang and clamor of dreadful battle we hear the mournful dirge of
minstrels wailing o'er the dead.
"Mourn, ye sons of song, mourn! Weep on the rocks of roaring winds, O mad of