Fragments Of Ancient Poetry | Page 6

published appear as detached pieces in this collection, there is ground to believe that most of them were originally episodes of a greater work which related to the wars of Fingal. Concerning this hero innumerable traditions remain, to this day, in the Highlands of Scotland. The story of Oscian, his son, is so generally known, that to describe one in whom the race of a great family ends, it has 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 Ireland and the north of Scotland. Every chief or great man had in his family a Bard or poet, whose office it was to record in verse, the illustrious actions of that family. By the succession of these Bards, such poems were handed down from race to race; some in manuscript, but more by oral tradition. And tradition, in a country so free of intermixture with foreigners, and among a people so strongly attached to the memory of their ancestors, has preserved many of them in a great measure incorrupted to this day.
They are not set to music, nor sung. The verification in the original is simple; and to such as understand the language, very smooth and beautiful; 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. Even the arrangement of the words in the original has been imitated; to which must be imputed some inversions in the style, that otherwise would not have been chosen.
Of the poetical merit of these fragments nothing shall here be said. Let the public judge, and pronounce. It is believed, that, by a careful inquiry, many more remains of ancient genius, no less valuable than those now given to the world, might be found in the same country where these have been collected. In particular there is reason to hope that one work of considerable length, and which deserves to be styled an heroic poem, might be recovered and translated, if encouragement were given to such an undertaking. The subject is, an invasion of Ireland by Swarthan King of Lochlyn; which is the name of Denmark in the Erse language. Cuchulaid, the General or Chief of the Irish tribes, upon intelligence of the invasion, assembles his forces. Councils are held; and battles fought. But after several unsuccescful engagements, the Irish are forced to submit. At length, Fingal King of Scotland, called in this poem, "The Desert of the hills," arrives with his ships to assist Cuchulaid. He expels the Danes from the country; and returns home victorious. This poem is held to be of greater antiquity than any of the rest that are preserved. And the author speaks of himself as present in the expedition of Fingal. The three last poems in the collection are fragments which the translator obtained of this epic poem; and though very imperfect, they were judged not unworthy of being inserted. If the whole were recovered, it might serve to throw confiderable light upon the Scottish and Irish antiquities.
FRAGMENT
I
SHILRIC, VINVELA.
VINVELA
My love is a son of the hill.?He pursues the flying deer.?His grey dogs are panting?around him; his bow-string sounds in?the wind. Whether by the fount of?the rock, or by the stream of the?mountain thou liest; when the rushes are?nodding with the wind, and the mist?is flying over thee, let me approach?my love unperceived, and see him?from the rock. Lovely I saw thee?first by the aged oak; thou wert returning?tall from the chace; the fairest?among thy friends.
SHILRIC.
What voice is that I hear? that?voice like the summer-wind.--I sit?not by the nodding rushes; I hear not?the fount of the rock. Afar, Vinvela,?afar I go to the wars of Fingal. My?dogs attend me no more. No more?I tread the hill. No more from on?high I see thee, fair-moving by the?stream of the plain; bright as the?bow of heaven; as the moon on the?western wave.
VINVELA.
Then thou art gone, O Shilric!?and I am alone on the hill. The?deer are seen on the brow; void of?fear they graze along. No more they?dread the wind; no more the rustling?tree. The hunter is far removed;?he is in the field of graves. Strangers!?sons of the waves! spare my?lovely Shilric.
SHILRIC.
If fall I must in the field, raise high?my grave, Vinvela. Grey stones, and?heaped-up earth, shall murk me to future?times. When the hunter shall sit by?the mound, and produce his food at?noon, "some warrior rests here," he?will say; and my fame shall live in his?praise. Remember me, Vinvela, when?low on earth I lie!
VINVELA.
Yes!--I will remember thee--indeed?my Shilric will fall. What shall I do,?my love! when thou art gone for ever??Through these hills I will go at noon: O?will