Fragments Of Ancient Poetry | Page 6

of
religion of any kind. One circumstance seems to prove them to be
coeval with the very infancy of Christianity in Scotland. In a fragment
of the same poems, which the translator has seen, a Culdee or Monk is
represented as desirous to take down in writing from the mouth of
Oscian, who is the principal personage in several of the following
fragments, his warlike atchievements and those of his family. But
Oscian treats the monk and his religion with disdain, telling him, that
the deeds of such great men were subjects too high to be recorded by
him, or by any of his religion: A full proof that Christianity was not as
yet established in the country.

Though the poems now 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