Fragments Of Ancient Poetry | Page 8

my Connal?
CONNAL.
They live. I saw them return from
the chace, like a stream of light.
The
sun was on their shields: In a line they
descended the hill. Loud
is the voice of
the youth; the war, my love, is near.
To-morrow the
enormous Dargo comes
to try the force of our race. The race of

Fingal he defies; the race of battle and
wounds.
CRIMORA.
Connal, I saw his sails like grey mist
on the sable
wave. They came to land.
Connnal, many are the warriors of

Dargo!
CONNAL.
Bring me thy father's shield; the iron
shield of Rinval; that shield like
the
full moon when it is darkened in the
sky.
CRIMORA.
That shield I bring, O Connal; but
it did not defend my father. By the

spear of Gauror he fell. Thou mayst
fall, O Connal!
CONNAL.
Fall indeed I may: But raise my
tomb, Crimora. Some stones, a
mound
of earth, shall keep my memory.
Though fair thou art, my
love, as the
light; more pleasant than the gale of
the hill; yet I will
not stay. Raise my
tomb, Crimora.
CRIMORA,
Then give me those arms of light;
that sword, and that spear of steel. I

shall meet Dargo with thee, and aid my
lovely Connal. Farewell,
ye rocks of
Ardven! ye deer! and ye streams of
the hill!--We shall

return no more.
Our tombs are distant far.
V
Autumn is dark on the mountains;
grey mist rests on the hills. The

whirlwind is heard on the heath. Dark
rolls the river through the
narrow plain.
A tree stands alone on the hill, and
marks the grave of
Connal. The leaves
whirl round with the wind, and strew
the grave
of the dead. At times are
seen here the ghosts of the deceased,
when
the musing hunter alone stalks
slowly over the heath.
Who can reach the source of thy
race, O Connal? and who recount
thy
Fathers? Thy family grew like an oak
on the mountain, which
meeteth the
wind with its lofty head. But now it
is torn from the
earth. Who shall supply
the place of Connal?
Here was the din of arms; and
here the groans of the dying. Mournful

are the wars of Fingal! O Connal!
it was here thou didst fall. Thine
arm
was like a storm; thy sword, a beam
of the sky; thy height, a
rock on the
plain; thine eyes, a furnace of fire.
Louder than a storm
was thy voice,
when thou confoundedst the field. Warriors
fell by
thy sword, as the thistle by
the staff of a boy.
Dargo the mighty came on, like a
cloud of thunder. His brows were
contracted
and dark. His eyes like two
caves in a rock. Bright rose
their
swords on each side; dire was the clang
of their steel.
The daughter of Rinval was near;
Crimora, bright in the armour of
man;
her hair loose behind, her bow in her
hand. She followed the
youth to the
war, Connal her much beloved. She
drew the string on
Dargo; but erring
pierced her Connal. He falls like an
oak on the
plain; like a rock from the
shaggy hill. What shall she do, hapless

maid!--He bleeds; her Connal dies.
All the night long she cries, and
all the
day, O Connal, my love, and my
friend! With grief the sad

mourner
died.
Earth here incloseth the loveliest
pair on the hill. The grass grows
between
the stones of their tomb; I sit in
the mournful shade. The
wind sighs
through the grass; and their memory
rushes on my mind.
Undisturbed you
now sleep together; in the tomb of the
mountain
you rest alone.
VI
Son of the noble Fingal, Oscian,
Prince of men! what tears run down

the cheeks of age? what shades thy
mighty soul?
Memory, son of Alpin, memory
wounds the aged. Of former times
are
my thoughts; my thoughts are of the
noble Fingal. The race of
the king return
into my mind, and wound me with
remembrance.
One day, returned from the sport of
the mountains, from pursuing the
sons
of the hill, we covered this heath with
our youth. Fingal the
mighty was here,
and Oscur, my son, great in war. Fair
on our sight
from the sea, at once, a
virgin came. Her breast was like the
snow
of one night. Her cheek like the
bud of the rose. Mild was her blue

rolling eye: but sorrow was big in her
heart.
Fingal renowned in war! she cries,
sons of the king, preserve me!
Speak secure,
replies the king, daughter of beauty,
speak: our ear is
open to all: our
swords redress the injured. I fly from
Ullin, she
cries, from Ullin famous in
war. I fly from the embrace of him
who
would debase my blood. Cremor,
the friend of men, was my father;
Cremor
the Prince of Inverne.
Fingal's younger sons arose; Carryl
expert in the bow; Fillan beloved
of
the fair; and Fergus first in the race.
--Who from the farthest
Lochlyn?

who to the seas of Molochasquir? who
dares hurt the
maid whom the sons of
Fingal guard? Daughter of beauty, rest


secure; rest in peace, thou fairest of women.
Far in the blue distance of the deep,
some spot appeared like the back
of the
ridge-wave. But soon the ship increased
on our sight. The
hand of Ullin drew
her to land. The mountains trembled
as he
moved. The hills shook at his
steps. Dire rattled his armour