Part 4 (1/2)

Our warriors fell before him, like the field before the reapers. Fingal's three sons he bound. He plunged his sword into the fair-one's breast.

She fell as a wreath of snow before the sun in spring. Her bosom heaved in death; her soul came forth in blood.

Oscur my son came down; the mighty in battle descended. His armour rattled as thunder; and the lightning of his eyes was terrible. There, was the clas.h.i.+ng of swords; there, was the voice of steel. They struck and they thrust; they digged for death with their swords.

But death was distant far, and delayed to come. The sun began to decline; and the cow-herd thought of home.

Then Oscur's keen steel found the heart of Ullin. He fell like a mountain-oak covered over with glittering frost: He shone like a rock on the plain.--Here the daughter of beauty lieth; and here the bravest of men. Here one day ended the fair and the valiant.

Here rest the pursuer and the pursued.

Son of Alpin! the woes of the aged are many: their tears are 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 friends.h.i.+p 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 b.r.e.a.s.t.s, 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 pa.s.s 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 s.h.i.+eld 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.