Fragments Of Ancient Poetry | Page 9

for the past.?This raised my sorrow, warriour; memory?awaked my grief. Oscur my?son was brave; but Oscur is now no?more. Thou hast heard my grief, O?son of Alpin; forgive the tears of the?aged.
VII
Why openest thou afresh the spring of?my grief, O son of Alpin, inquiring?how Oscur fell? My eyes are blind with?tears; but memory beams on my heart.?How can I relate the mournful death of?the head of the people! Prince of the?warriours, Oscur my son, shall I see thee?no more!
He fell as the moon in a storm; as?the sun from the midst of his course,?when clouds rise from the waste of the?waves, when the blackness of the storm?inwraps the rocks of Ardannider. I, like?an ancient oak on Morven, I moulder?alone in my place. The blast hath lopped?my branches away; and I tremble?at the wings of the north. Prince of?the warriors, Oscur my son! shall I see?thee no more!
DERMID
DERMID and Oscur were one: They?reaped the battle together. Their?friendship was strong as their steel; and?death walked between them to the field.?They came on the foe like two rocks?falling from the brows of Ardven. Their?swords were stained with the blood of?the valiant: warriours fainted at their?names. Who was a match for Oscur,?but Dermid? and who for Dermid, but?Oscur?
THEY killed mighty Dargo in the?field; Dargo before invincible. His?daughter was fair as the morn; mild?as the beam of night. Her eyes, like?two stars in a shower: her breath, the?gale of spring: her breasts, as the?new fallen snow floating on the moving heath.?The warriours saw her, and loved; their?souls were fixed on the maid. Each?loved her, as his fame; each must?possess her or die. But her soul was fixed?on Oscur; my son was the youth of?her love. She forgot the blood of her?father; and loved the hand that slew?him.
Son of Oscian, said Dermid, I love;?O Oscur, I love this maid. But her?soul cleaveth unto thee; and nothing?can heal Dermid. Here, pierce this?bosom, Oscur; relieve me, my friend,?with thy sword.
My sword, son of Morny, shall never?be stained with the blood of Dermid.
Who then is worthy to slay me, O?Oscur son of Oscian? Let not my life?pass away unknown. Let none but Oscur?slay me. Send me with honour to?the 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 death?came from the hand of Dermid!
They fought by the brook of the?mountain; by the streams of Branno.?Blood tinged the silvery stream, and?crudled round the mossy stones. Dermid?the graceful fell; fell, and smiled in?death.
And fallest thou, son of Morny;?fallest, thou by Oscur's hand! Dermid?invincible in war, thus do I see thee fall!?--He went, and returned to the maid?whom he loved; returned, but she perceived?his 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 on?a tree by the brook of the hill, is the?shield of Gormur the brave, whom in?battle I slew. I have wasted the day?in vain, nor could my arrow pierce it.
Let me try, son Oscian, the skill?of Dargo's daughter. My hands were?taught the bow: my father delighted in?my skill.
She went. He stood behind the?shield. Her arrow flew and pierced his?breast[A].
[Footnote A: Nothing was held by the ancient Highlanders more essential to their glory, than to die by the hand of some person worthy or renowned. This was the occasion of Oscur's contriving to be slain by his mistress, now that he was weary of life. In those early times suicide was utterly unknown among that people, and no traces of it are found in the old poetry. Whence the translator suspects the account that follows of the daughter of Dargo killing herself, to be the interpolation of some later Bard.]
Blessed be that hand of snow; and?blessed thy bow of yew! I fall resolved?on death: and who but the daughter of?Dargo was worthy to slay me? Lay me?in the earth, my fair-one; lay me by?the side of Dermid.
Oscur! I have the blood, the soul?of the mighty Dargo. Well pleased I?can meet death. My sorrow I can end?thus.--She pierced her white bosom?with steel. She fell; she trembled; and?died.
By the brook of the hill their graves?are laid; a birch's unequal shade covers?their tomb. Often on their green earthen?tombs the branchy sons of the mountain?feed, when mid-day is all in flames,?and silence is over all the hills.
VIII
By the side of a rock on the hill, beneath?the aged trees, old Oscian?sat on the moss; the last of the race of?Fingal. Sightless are his aged eyes;?his beard is waving in the wind. Dull?through the leafless trees he heard the?voice of the north. Sorrow revived in?his soul: he began and lamented the?dead.
How hast thou fallen like an oak,?with all thy branches round thee! Where?is Fingal the King? where is Oscur my?son? where are all my race? Alas! in?the earth