"
Such were his words, when Clessammor came, and lifted high his spear.
Such were his words, when Clessammor came, and lifted high his spear.
World's Greatest Books - Volume 17 - Poetry and Drama
To appreciate the physical theory of
Epicurus, it is necessary to note the erroneous speculations of other
Greek thinkers, whether, like Heraclitus, they deduced all things
from one such fundamental element as fire, or whether they postulated
four elements. From a criticism of the theories of Empedocles and
Anaxagoras, the poet, return to the main subject.
A HARD TASK AND THREEFOLD TITLE TO FAME
How dark my theme, I know within my mind;
Yet hath high hope of praise with thyrsus keen
Smitten my heart and struck into my breast
Sweet passion for the Muses, stung wherewith
In lively thought I traverse pathless haunts
Pierian, untrodden yet by man.
I love to visit those untasted springs
And quaff; I love to cull fresh blooms, and whence
The Muses never veiled the brows of man
To seek a wreath of honour for my head:
First, for that lofty is the lore I teach;
Then, cramping knots of priestcraft I would loose;
And next because of mysteries I sing clear,
Decking my poems with the Muses' charm.
This sweetening of verse with: "the honey of the Muses" is like
disguising unpalatable medicine for children. The mind must be engaged
by attractive means till it perceives the nature of the world.
As to the existing universe, it is bounded in none of its dimensions;
matter and space are infinite. All things are in continual motion
in every direction, and there is an endless supply of material
bodies from infinite space. These ultimate atoms buffet each other
ceaselessly; they unite or disunite. But there is no such thing
as design in their unions. All is fortuitous concourse; so there
are innumerable blind experiments and failures in nature, due to
resultless encounters of the atoms.
CALM OF MIND IN RELATION TO A TRUE THEORY OF THE UNIVERSE
When tempests rack the mighty ocean's face,
How sweet on land to watch the seaman's toil--
Not that we joy in neighbour's jeopardy,
But sweet it is to know what ills we 'scape.
How sweet to see war's mighty rivalries
Ranged on the plains--without thy share of risk.
Naught sweeter than to hold the tranquil realms
On high, well fortified by sages' lore,
Whence to look down on others wide astray--
Lost wanderers questing for the way of life--
See strife of genius, rivalry of rank,
See night and day men strain with wondrous toil
To rise to utmost power and grasp the world.
Man feels an imperious craving to shun bodily pain and secure mental
pleasure. But the glitter of luxury at the banquets of the rich
cannot satisfy this craving: there are the simpler joys of the open
country in spring. But the fact is, no magnificence can save the body
from pain or the mind from apprehensions. The genuine remedy lies in
knowledge alone.
Not by the sunbeams nor clear shafts of day,
Needs then dispel this dread, this gloom of soul,
But by the face of nature and its plan.
PROPERTIES OF ATOMS
Particles are constantly being transferred from one thing to another,
though the sum total remains constant. In the light hereof may be
understood the uninterrupted waxing and waning of things, and the
perpetual succession of existence.
Full soon the broods of living creatures change,
Like runners handing on the lamp of life.
Greater or less solidity depends on the resilience of atoms. Their
ceaseless motion is illustrated by the turmoil of motes in a stream
of sunlight let into a dark room. As to their velocity, it greatly
exceeds that of the sun's rays. This welter of atoms is the product
of chance; the very blemishes of the world forbid one to regard it as
divine. But the atoms do not rain through space in rigidly parallel
lines. A minute swerve in their motion is essential to account for
clashings and production; and in the ethical sphere it is this swerve
which saves the mind from "Necessity" and makes free will possible.
Though the universe appears to be at rest, this is a fallacy of the
senses, due to the fact that the motions of "first bodies" are not
cognisable by our eyes; indeed, a similar phenomenon is the apparent
vanishing of motion due to distance; for a white spot on a far-off
hill may really be a frolicsome lamb.
Oft on a hillside, cropping herbage rich,
The woolly flocks creep on whithersoe'er
The grass bejewelled with fresh dew invites,
And full-fed lambs disport and butt in play--
All this to eyes at distance looks a blur;
On the green hill the white spot seems at rest.
The shapes of atoms vary; and so differences of species, and
differences within the same species, arise. This variety in shape
accounts, too, for the varying action and effects of atoms. Atoms
in hard bodies, for example, are mainly hooked; but in liquids
mainly smooth. In each thing, however, there are several kinds,
which furnish that particular thing with a variety of properties.
Furthermore, atoms are colourless, for in themselves they are
invisible; they never come into the light, whereas colour needs
light--witness the changing hues of the down on a pigeon's neck, or
of a peacock's tail. Atoms are themselves without senses, though they
produce things possessed of senses. To grasp the origin of species
and development of animate nature, one must realise the momentous
importance of the arrangement and interconnection of atoms. Wood
and other rotting bodies will bring forth worms, because material
particles undergo, under altered conditions, fresh permutations and
combinations. One may ask, what of man? He can laugh and weep, he
can discuss the composition of all things, and even inquire into the
nature of those very atoms! It is true that he springs from them. Yet
a man may laugh without being made of laughing atoms, and a man may
reason without being made of reasonable atoms!
EPICURUS AND THE GODS
O thou that from gross darkness first didst lift
A torch to light the path to happiness,
I follow thee, thou glory of the Greeks!
And in thy footsteps firmly plant my steps,
Not bent so much to rival as for love
To copy. Why should swallow vie with swan?
Thou, father, art discoverer of things,
Enriching us with all a father's lore;
And, famous master, from thy written page,
As bees in flowery dells sip every bloom,
So hold we feast on all thy golden words--
Golden, most worthy, aye, of lasting life.
Soon as thy reasoning, sprung from mind inspired,
Hath loud proclaimed the mystery of things,
The mind's fears flee, the bulwarks of the world
Part, and I see things work throughout the void.
Then Godhead is revealed in homes of calm,
Which neither tempests shake nor clouds with rain
Obscure, nor snow by piercing frost congealed
Mars with white fall, but ever cloudless air
Wraps in a smile of generous radiancy.
There nature, too, supplieth every want,
And nothing ever lessens peace of mind.
_III. --Of Mind and Soul and Death_
Mind and soul are portions of the body. While mind is the ruling
element, they are both of the nature of the body--only they are
composed of exceedingly minute and subtle atoms capable of marvellous
speed. Therefore, when death deprives the body of mind and soul, it
does not make the body appreciably lighter.
It is as if a wine had lost its scent,
Or breath of some sweet perfume had escaped.
Mind and soul consist of spirit, air, heat, and an elusive fourth
constituent, the nimblest and subtlest of essences, the very "soul of
the soul. " It follows that mind and soul are mortal. Among many proofs
may be adduced their close interconnection with the body, as seen
in cases of drunkenness and epilepsy; their curability by medicine;
their inability to recall a state prior to their incarnation;
their liability to be influenced by heredity like corporeal seeds.
Besides, why should an immortal soul need to quit the body at death?
Decay surely could not hurt immortality! Then, again, imagine souls
contending for homes in a body about to be born! Consequently, the
soul being mortal, death has no sting.
To us, then, death is nothing--matters naught,
Since mortal is the nature of the mind,
E'en as in bygone time we felt no grief
When Punic conflict hemmed all Rome around.
When, rent by war's dread turbulence, the world
Shuddered and quaked beneath the heaven's high realm,
So when we are no more, when soul and frame
Of which we are compact, have been divorced,
Be sure, to us, who then shall be no more,
Naught can occur or ever make us feel,
Not e'en though earth were blent with sea and sky.
Men in general forget that death, in ending life's pleasures, also
ends the need and the desire for them.
"Soon shall thy home greet thee in joy no more,
Nor faithful wife nor darling children run
To snatch first kiss, and stir within thy heart
Sweet thoughts too deep for words. Thou canst no more
Win wealth by working or defend thine own.
The pity of it! One fell hour," they say,
"Hath robbed thee of thine every prize in life. "
Hereat they add not this: "And now thou art
Beset with yearning for such things no more. "
The dead are to be envied, not lamented. The wise will exclaim: "Thou,
O dead, art free from pain: we who survive are full of tears. "
"What is so passing bitter," we should ask,
"If life be rounded by a rest and sleep,
That one should pine in never-ending grief? "
Universal nature has a rebuke for the coward that is afraid to die.
There are no punishments beyond. Hell and hell's tortures are in this
life. It is the victim of passion or of gnawing cares that is the real
victim of torment.
_IV--The World's Origin and Its Growth_
Not by design did primal elements
Find each their place as 'twere with forethought keen,
Nor bargained what their movements were to be;
But since the atom host in many ways
Smitten by blows for infinite ages back,
And by their weight impelled, have coursed along,
Have joined all ways, and made full test of all
The types which mutual unions could create,
Therefore it is that through great time dispersed,
With every kind of blend and motion tried,
They meet at length in momentary groups
Which oft prove rudiments of mighty things--
Of earth, and sea, and sky, and living breeds.
Amidst this primeval medley of warring atoms there was no sun-disk to
be discerned climbing the vault, no stars, or sea, or sky, or earth,
or air--nothing, in fact, like what now exists. The next stage came
when the several parts began to fly asunder, and like to join with
like, so that the parts of the world were gradually differentiated.
Heavier bodies combined in central chaos and forced out lighter
elements to make ether. Thus earth was formed by a long process of
condensation.
Daily, as ever more the ether-fires
And sun-rays all around close pressed the earth
With frequent blows upon its outer crust,
Each impact concentrating it perforce,
So was a briny sweat squeezed out the more
With ooze to swell the sea and floating plains.
PRIMEVAL FERTILITY OF THE EARTH
At first the earth produced all kinds of herbs
And verdant sheen o'er every hill and plain;
The flowery meadows gleamed in hues of green,
And soon the trees were gifted with desire
To race unbridled in the lists of growth;
As plumage, hair, and bristles are produced
On limbs of quadrupeds or frame of birds,
So the fresh earth then first put forth the grass
And shrubs, and next gave birth to mortal breeds,
Thick springing multiform in divers ways.
The name of "Mother," then, earth justly won,
Since from the earth all living creatures came.
Full many monsters earth essayed to raise,
Uprising strange of look and strange of limb,
Hermaphrodites distinct from either sex,
Some robbed of feet, and others void of hands,
Or mouthless mutes, or destitute of eyes,
Or bound by close adhesion of their limbs
So that they could do naught nor move at all,
Nor shun an ill, nor take what need required.
All other kinds of portents earth did yield--
In vain, since nature drove increase away,
They could not reach the longed-for bloom of life,
Nor find support, nor link themselves in love.
SURVIVAL OF THE FITTEST IN THE STRUGGLE FOR EXISTENCE
All things you see that draw the breath of life,
Have been protected and preserved by craft,
Or speed, or courage, from their early years;
And many beasts, which usefulness commends,
Abide domesticated in our care.
The protective quality in such animals as lions is ferocity; in
foxes, cunning; in stags, swiftness. Creatures without such natural
endowments of defence or utility tend to be the prey of others, and so
become extinct.
PRIMITIVE MAN
Primeval man was hardier in the fields,
As fitted those that hardy earth produced,
Built on a frame of larger, tougher bones
And knit with powerful sinews in his flesh;
Not likely to be hurt by heat or cold,
Or change of food, or wasting pestilence.
While many lustres of the sun revolved
Men led a life of roving like the beasts.
What sun or rain might give, or soil might yield
Unforced, was boon enough to sate the heart.
Oft 'neath the acorn-bearing oaks they found
Their food; and arbute-berries, which you now
In winter see turn ripe with scarlet hue,
Of old grew greater in luxuriance.
Through well known woodland haunts of nymphs they roamed,
Wherefrom they saw the gliding water brook
Bathe with a generous plash the dripping rocks--
Those dripping rocks that trickled o'er green moss.
As yet mankind did not know how to handle fire, or to clothe
themselves with the spoils of the chase; but dwelt in woods, or caves,
or other random shelter found in stress of weather. Each man lived for
himself, and might was right. The stone or club was used in hunting;
but the cave-dwellers were in frequent danger of being devoured by
beasts of prey. Still, savage mortality was no greater than that of
modern times.
THE EVOLVING OF CIVILISATION
When men had got them huts and skins and fire,
And woman joined with man to make a home,
And when they saw an offspring born from them,
Then first began the softening of the race.
Fire left them less inured with shivering frames
To bear the cold 'neath heaven's canopy.
Then neighbours turned to compacts mutual,
Desirous nor to do nor suffer harm.
They claimed for child and woman tenderness,
Declaring by their signs and stammering cries
That pity for the weak becometh all.
The rudiments of humane sentiments sprang, therefore, in prehistoric
family life. Language was the gradual outcome of natural cries,
not an arbitrary invention. The uses of fire were learned from the
lightning-flash and from conflagrations due to spontaneous combustion
or chance friction. In time this opened out the possibility of many
arts, such as metal-working; for forest fires caused streams of
silver, gold, copper, or lead to run into hollows, and early man
observed that when cooled, the glittering lumps retained the mould of
the cavities. Nature also was the model for sowing and grafting. Those
who excelled in mental endowment invented new modes of life. Towns and
strongholds were founded as places of defence; and possessions were
secured by personal beauty, strength, or cleverness. But the access of
riches often ousted the claims of both beauty and strength.
For men, though strong and fair to look upon,
Oft follow in the retinue of wealth.
Religious feelings were fostered by visions and dreams; marvellous
shapes to which savage man ascribed supernatural powers. Recurrent
appearances of such shapes induced a belief in their continuous
existence: so arose the notion of gods that live for ever.
Our navigation, tillage, walls, and laws,
Our armour, roads, and dress, and such-like boons,
And every elegance of modern life,
Poems and pictures, statues deftly wrought,
All these men learned with slow advancing steps
From practice and the knowledge won by wit.
So by degrees time brings each thing to sight,
And reason raiseth it to realms of day.
In arts must one thing, then another, shine,
Until they win their full development.
FOOTNOTES:
[V] To the Roman poet Titus Corus Lucretius (99-55 B. C. )
belongs the distinction of having made Epicureanism epic. Possessed by
a desire to free his fellow men from the trammels of superstition and
the dread of death, he composed his poem, "On the Nature of Things. "
His reasonings were based on the atomic theory, which the Greek
Epicurus had taken as the physical side of his system. In natural
law Lucretius found the true antidote to superstition, and from a
materialistic hypothesis of atoms and void he deduced everything.
Against the futilities of myth-religion he protested with the fervour
of an evangelist. On the ethical side, he accepted from Epicurus
the conception that the ideal lies in pleasure--not wild, sensual
pleasure, but that calm of mind which comes from temperate and refined
enjoyment, subdual of extravagant passion, and avoidance of political
entanglements. It is appropriate that the life of this apostle of
scientific quietism should be involved in obscurity. The story of his
insanity, so beautifully treated by Tennyson, may or may not be true.
It is hardly credible that a work so closely reasoned was, as a whole,
composed in lucid intervals between fits of madness; but, on the other
hand, there are signs of flagging in the later portions, and the work
comes to a sudden conclusion. The translations are specially made by
Prof. J. Wight Duff, and include a few extracts from his "Literary
History of Rome. "
JAMES MACPHERSON
Ossian[W]
_I. --Carthon_
A tale of the times of old--the deeds of days of other years.
Who comes from the land of strangers, with his thousands around him?
The sunbeam pours its bright stream before him; his hair meets the wind
of his hills. His face is settled from war. He is calm as the evening
beam that looks, from the cloud of the west, on Cona's silent vale. Who
is it but Fingal, the king of mighty deeds! The feast is spread around;
the night passed away in joy.
"Tell," said the mighty Fingal to Clessammor, "the tale of thy youthful
days. Let us hear the sorrow of thy youth, and the darkness of thy
days. "
"It was in the days of peace," replied the great Clessammor. "I came in
my bounding ship to Balclutha's walls of towers. Three days I remained
in Reuthamir's halls, and saw his daughter--that beam of light. Her
eyes were like the stars of night. My love for Moina was great; my
heart poured forth in joy.
"The son of a stranger came--a chief who loved the white-bosomed Moina.
The strength of his pride arose. We fought; he fell beneath my sword.
The banks of Clutha heard his fall, a thousand spears glittered around.
I fought; the strangers prevailed. I plunged into the stream of Clutha.
My white sails rose over the waves, and I bounded on the dark-blue sea.
Moina came to the shore, her loose hair flew on the wind, and I heard
her mournful, distant cries. Often did I turn my ship, but the winds of
the east prevailed. Nor Clutha ever since have I seen, nor Moina of the
dark-brown hair. She fell in Balclutha, for I have seen her ghost. I
knew her as she came through the dusky night, along the murmur of Lora.
She was like the new moon seen through the gathered mist, when the sky
pours down its flaky snow and the world is silent and dark. "
"Raise, ye bards," said the mighty Fingal, "the praise of unhappy
Moina. "
The night passed away in song; morning returned in joy. The mountains
showed their grey heads; the blue face of ocean smiled. But as the sun
rose on the sea Fingal and his heroes beheld a distant fleet. Like a
mist on the ocean came the strange ships, and discharged their youth
upon the coast. Carthon, their chief, was among them, like the stag in
the midst of the herd. He was a king of spears, and as he moved towards
Selma his thousands moved behind him.
"Go, with a song of peace," said Fingal. "Go, Ullin, to the king of
spears. Tell him that the ghosts of our foes are many; but renowned are
they who have feasted in my halls! "
When Ullin came to the mighty Carthon, he raised the song of peace.
"Come to the feast of Fingal, Carthon, from the rolling sea! Partake of
the feast of the king, or lift the spear of war. Behold that field, O
Carthon. Many a green hill rises there, with mossy stones and rustling
grass. These are the tombs of Fingal's foes, the sons of the rolling
sea! "
"Dost thou speak to the weak in arms," said Carthon, "bard of the
woody Morven? Have not I seen the fallen Balclutha? And shall I feast
with Fingal, the son of Comhal, who threw his fire in the midst of my
father's hall? I was young, and knew not the cause why the virgins
wept. But when the years of my youth came on, I beheld the moss of my
fallen walls; my sigh arose with the morning, and my tears descended
with night. Shall I not fight, I said to my soul, against the children
of my foes? And I will fight, O bard! I feel the strength of my soul. "
His people gathered round the hero, and drew their shining swords. The
spear trembled in his hand. Bending forward, he seemed to threaten the
king.
"Who of my chiefs," said Fingal, "will meet the son of the rolling sea?
Many are his warriors on the coast, and strong is his ashen spear. "
Cathul rose, in his strength, the son of the mighty Lormar. Three
hundred youths attend the chief, the race of his native streams. Feeble
was his arm against Carthon; he fell, and his heroes fled. Connal
resumed the battle, but he broke his heavy spear; he lay bound on the
field; Carthon pursued his people.
"Clessammor," said the king of Morven, "where is the spear of my
strength? Wilt thou behold Connal bound? "
Clessammor rose in the strength of his steel, shaking his grizzly
locks. He fitted the shield to his side; he rushed, in the pride of
valour.
Carthon saw the hero rushing on, and loved the dreadful joy of his
face; his strength, in the locks of age!
"Stately are his steps of age," he said. "Lovely the remnant of his
years! Perhaps it is the husband of Moina, the father of car-borne
Carthon. Often have I heard that he dwelt at the echoing stream of
Lora.
"
Such were his words, when Clessammor came, and lifted high his spear.
The youth received it on his shield, and spoke the words of peace.
"Warrior of the aged locks! Hast thou no son to raise the shield before
his father to meet the arm of youth? What will be the fame of my sword
shouldst thou fall? "
"It will be great, thou son of pride! " began the tall Clessammor. "I
have been renowned in battle, but I never told my name to a foe. Yield
to me, son of the wave; then shalt thou know that the mark of my sword
is in many a field. "
"I never yield, king of spears! " replied the noble pride of Carthon.
"Retire among thy friends! Let younger heroes fight. "
"Why dost thou wound my soul? " replied Clessammor, with a tear. "Age
does not tremble on my hand; I still can lift the sword. Shall I fly
in Fingal's sight, in the sight of him I love? Son of the sea, I never
fled! Exalt thy pointed spear! "
They fought, like two contending winds that strive to roll the wave.
Carthon bade his spear to err; he still thought that the foe was the
spouse of Moina. He broke Clessammor's beamy spear in twain; he seized
his shining sword. But as Carthon was binding the chief, the chief drew
the dagger of his fathers. He saw the foe's uncovered side, and opened
there a wound.
Fingal saw Clessammor low; he moved in the sound of his steel. The
host stood silent in his presence; they turned their eyes to the king.
He came, like the sullen noise of a storm before the winds arise.
Carthon stood in his place; the blood is rushing down his side; he saw
the coming down of the king. Pale was his cheek; his hair flew loose,
his helmet shook on high. The force of Carthon failed, but his soul was
strong.
"King of Morven," Carthon said, "I fall in the midst of my course.
But raise my remembrance on the banks of Lora, where my father dwelt.
Perhaps the husband of Moina will mourn over his fallen Carthon. "
His words reached Clessammor. He fell, in silence, on his son. The host
stood darkened around; no voice is on the plain. Night came; the moon
from the east looked on the mournful field; but still they stood, like
a silent grove that lifts its head on Gormal, when the loud winds are
laid, and dark autumn is on the plain; and then they died.
Fingal was sad for Carthon; he commanded his bards to sing the hero's
praise. Ossian joined them, and this was his song: "My soul has been
mournful for Carthon; he fell in the days of his youth. And thou, O
Clessammor, where is thy dwelling in the wind? Has the youth forgot
his wound? Flies he, on clouds, with thee? Perhaps they may come to my
dreams. I think I hear a feeble voice! The beam of heaven delights to
shine on the grave of Carthon. I feel it warm around.
"O thou that rollest above, round as the shield of my fathers! Whence
are thy beams, O sun, thy everlasting light? Thou comest forth in thy
awful beauty; the stars hide themselves in the sky; the moon, cold and
pale, sinks in the western wave. But thou thyself movest alone. Who
can be a companion of thy course? The oaks of the mountains fall; the
mountains themselves decay with years; the ocean shrinks and grows
again; the moon herself is lost in heaven; but thou art for ever the
same, rejoicing in the brightness of thy course.
"When the world is dark with tempests; when thunder rolls, and
lightning flies, thou lookest in thy beauty from the clouds, and
laughest at the storm. But to Ossian thou lookest in vain, for he
beholds thy beams no more; whether thy yellow hair flows on the eastern
clouds, or thou tremblest at the gates of the west. But thou art
perhaps, like me, for a season; thy years will have an end. Thou shalt
sleep in thy clouds; careless of the voice of the morning. Exult thee,
O sun, in the strength of thy youth! Age is dark and unlovely. It is
like the glimmering light of the moon when it shines through broken
clouds and the mist is on the hills; the blast of north is on the
plain; the traveller shrinks in the midst of his journey. "
_II. --Darthula_
Daughter of heaven, fair art thou! The silence of thy face is pleasant!
Thou comest forth in loveliness. The stars attend thy blue course in
the east. The clouds rejoice in thy presence, O moon! Look from thy
gates in the sky. Burst the cloud, O wind, that the daughter of night
may look forth, that the shaggy mountains may brighten, and the ocean
roll its white waves in light!
Nathos is on the deep, and Althos, that beam of youth. Ardan is near
his brothers. They move in the gloom of their course. The sons of
Usnoth move in darkness, from the wrath of Cairbar of Erin. Who is
that, dim, by their side? The night has covered her beauty! Who is it
but Darthula, the first of Erin's maids? She has fled from the love
of Caribar, with blue-shielded Nathos. But the winds deceive thee, O
Darthula! They deny the woody Etha to thy sails. These are not the
mountains of Nathos; nor is that the roar of his climbing waves. The
halls of Cairbar are near; the towers of the foe lift their heads! Erin
stretches its green head into the sea. Tura's bay receives the ship.
Where have ye been, ye southern winds, when the sons of my love were
deceived? But ye have been sporting on plains, pursuing the thistle's
beard. Oh that ye had been rustling in the sails of Nathos till the
hills of Etha arose; till they arose in their clouds, and saw their
returning chief!
Long hast thou been absent, Nathos--the day of thy return is past!
Lovely thou wast in the eyes of Darthula. Thy soul was generous and
mild, like the hour of the setting sun. But when the rage of battle
rose, thou wast a sea in a storm. The clang of thy arms was terrible;
the host vanished at the sound of thy coarse. It was then Darthula
beheld thee from the top of her mossy tower; from the tower of Selama,
where her fathers dwelt.
"Lovely art thou, O stranger! " she said, for her trembling soul arose.
"Fair art thou in thy battles, friend of the fallen Cormac! Why dost
thou rush on in thy valour, youth of the ruddy look? Few are thy hands
in fight against the dark-browed Cairbar! Oh that I might be freed from
his love--that I might rejoice in the presence of Nathos! "
Such were thy words, Darthula, in Selama's mossy towers. But now the
night is around thee. The winds have deceived thy sails, Darthula!
Cease a little while, O north wind! Let me hear the voice of the
lovely. Thy voice is lovely, Darthula, between the rustling blasts!
"Are these the rocks of Nathos? " she said. "This the roar of his
mountain streams? Comes that beam of light from Usnoth's mighty hall?
The mist spreads around; the beam is feeble and distant far. But the
light of Darthula's soul dwells in the chief of Etha! Son of the
generous Usnoth, why that broken sigh? Are we in the land of strangers,
chief of echoing Etha? "
"These are not the rocks of Nathos," he replied, "nor this the roar
of his streams. We are in the land of strangers, in the land of cruel
Cairbar. The winds have deceived us, Darthula. Erin lifts here her
hills. Go towards the north, Althos; be thy steps, Ardan, along the
coast; that the foe may not come in darkness, and our hopes of Etha
fail. I will go towards that mossy tower to see who dwells about the
beam. "
He went. She sat alone; she heard the rolling of the wave. The big tear
is in her eye. She looks for returning Nathos.
He returned, but his face was dark.
"Why art thou sad, O Nathos? " said the lovely daughter of Colla.
"We are in the land of foes," replied the hero. "The winds have
deceived us, Darthula. The strength of our friends is not near, nor the
mountains of Etha. Where shall I find thy peace, daughter of mighty
Colla? The brothers of Nathos are brave, and his own sword has shone
in fight! But what are the sons of Usnoth to the host of dark-browed
Cairbar? Oh that the winds had brought thy sails, Oscar, king of men!
Thou didst promise to come to the battles of fallen Cormac! Cairbar
would tremble in his halls, and peace dwell round the lovely Darthula.
But why dost thou fall, my soul? The sons of Usnoth may prevail! "
"And they will prevail, O Nathos! " said the rising soul of the maid.
"Never shall Darthula behold the halls of gloomy Cairbar. Give me those
arms of brass, that glitter to the passing meteor. I see them dimly in
the dark-bosomed ship. Darthula will enter the battle of steel. "
Joy rose in the face of Nathos when he heard the white-bosomed maid. He
looks towards the coming of Cairbar. The wind is rustling in his hair.
Darthula is silent at his side. Her look is fixed on the chief. She
strives to hide the rising sigh.
Morning rose with its beams. The sons of Erin appear, like grey rocks,
with all their trees; they spread along the coast. Cairbar stood in the
midst. He grimly smiled when he saw the foe. Nathos rushed forward, in
his strength; nor could Darthula stay behind. She came with the hero,
lifting her shining spear.
"Come," said Nathos to Cairbar--"come, chief of high Temora! Let our
battle be on the coast, for the white-bosomed maid. His people are not
with Nathos; they are behind these rolling seas. Why dost thou bring
thy thousands against the chief of Etha? "
"Youth of the heart of pride," replied Cairbar, "shall Erin's king
fight with thee? Thy fathers were not among the renowned, and Cairbar
does not fight with feeble men! "
The tear started from car-borne Nathos. He turned his eyes to his
brothers. Their spears flew at once. Three heroes lay on earth. Then
the light of their swords gleamed on high. The ranks of Erin yield, as
a ridge of dark clouds before a blast of wind! Then Cairbar ordered his
people, and they drew a thousand bows. A thousand arrows flew. The sons
of Usnoth fell in blood. They fell like three young oaks, which stood
alone on the hill. The traveller saw the lovely trees, and wondered how
they grew so lonely; the blast of the desert came by night, and laid
their green heads low; next day he returned, but they were withered,
and the heath was bare!
Darthula stood in silent grief, and beheld their fall! Pale was her
cheek. Her trembling lips broke short a half-formed word. Her breast
of snow appeared. It appeared; but it was stained with blood. An arrow
was fixed in her side. She fell on the fallen Nathos, like a wreath of
snow! Her hair spreads wide on his face. Their blood is mixing round!
"Daughter of Colla--thou art low! " said Cairbar's hundred bards. "When
wilt thou rise in thy beauty, first of Erin's maids? Thy sleep is
long in the tomb. The sun shall not come to thy bed and say, 'Awake,
Darthula! Awake thou first of women! The wind of spring is abroad. The
flowers shake their heads on the green hills. The winds wave their
growing leaves. ' Retire, O sun, the daughter of Colla is asleep! She
will not come forth in her beauty. She will not move in the steps of
her loveliness! "
Such was the song of the bards when they raised the tomb. I, too, sang
over the grave when the king of Morven came to green Erin to fight with
the car-borne Cairbar!
FOOTNOTES:
[W] No ancient or modern work in the history of literature has
excited such wild admiration and such profound contempt as the "Ossian"
of James Macpherson. It was Napoleon's favourite work; he carried it
with him to Egypt and took it to St. Helena. Byron and Goethe and
Chateaubriand were also touched to enthusiasm by it. Its author--or,
as some still think, its editor--was a Scottish schoolmaster, James
Macpherson, born at Ruthven, in Inverness-shire on October 27, 1736.
The first part of the work, entitled "Fragments of Ancient Poetry,
Collected in the Highlands of Scotland, and Translated from the Gaelic,
or Erse, Language," was published in 1760; "Fingal" appeared in 1762,
and "Temora" in the following year. Doctor Johnson said of Macpherson:
"He has found names, and stories, and phrases, nay, passages in old
songs, and with them has blended his own compositions, and so made
what he gives to the world as the translation of an ancient poem"; and
this verdict is now confirmed by the best authorities. Nevertheless,
"Ossian" is a work of considerable merit and great historic interest.
It contains some fine passages of real poetry, such as the invocation
to the sun with which "Carthon" concludes, and it has served to attract
universal attention to the magnificent Celtic traditions of Scotland
and Ireland.
Epicurus, it is necessary to note the erroneous speculations of other
Greek thinkers, whether, like Heraclitus, they deduced all things
from one such fundamental element as fire, or whether they postulated
four elements. From a criticism of the theories of Empedocles and
Anaxagoras, the poet, return to the main subject.
A HARD TASK AND THREEFOLD TITLE TO FAME
How dark my theme, I know within my mind;
Yet hath high hope of praise with thyrsus keen
Smitten my heart and struck into my breast
Sweet passion for the Muses, stung wherewith
In lively thought I traverse pathless haunts
Pierian, untrodden yet by man.
I love to visit those untasted springs
And quaff; I love to cull fresh blooms, and whence
The Muses never veiled the brows of man
To seek a wreath of honour for my head:
First, for that lofty is the lore I teach;
Then, cramping knots of priestcraft I would loose;
And next because of mysteries I sing clear,
Decking my poems with the Muses' charm.
This sweetening of verse with: "the honey of the Muses" is like
disguising unpalatable medicine for children. The mind must be engaged
by attractive means till it perceives the nature of the world.
As to the existing universe, it is bounded in none of its dimensions;
matter and space are infinite. All things are in continual motion
in every direction, and there is an endless supply of material
bodies from infinite space. These ultimate atoms buffet each other
ceaselessly; they unite or disunite. But there is no such thing
as design in their unions. All is fortuitous concourse; so there
are innumerable blind experiments and failures in nature, due to
resultless encounters of the atoms.
CALM OF MIND IN RELATION TO A TRUE THEORY OF THE UNIVERSE
When tempests rack the mighty ocean's face,
How sweet on land to watch the seaman's toil--
Not that we joy in neighbour's jeopardy,
But sweet it is to know what ills we 'scape.
How sweet to see war's mighty rivalries
Ranged on the plains--without thy share of risk.
Naught sweeter than to hold the tranquil realms
On high, well fortified by sages' lore,
Whence to look down on others wide astray--
Lost wanderers questing for the way of life--
See strife of genius, rivalry of rank,
See night and day men strain with wondrous toil
To rise to utmost power and grasp the world.
Man feels an imperious craving to shun bodily pain and secure mental
pleasure. But the glitter of luxury at the banquets of the rich
cannot satisfy this craving: there are the simpler joys of the open
country in spring. But the fact is, no magnificence can save the body
from pain or the mind from apprehensions. The genuine remedy lies in
knowledge alone.
Not by the sunbeams nor clear shafts of day,
Needs then dispel this dread, this gloom of soul,
But by the face of nature and its plan.
PROPERTIES OF ATOMS
Particles are constantly being transferred from one thing to another,
though the sum total remains constant. In the light hereof may be
understood the uninterrupted waxing and waning of things, and the
perpetual succession of existence.
Full soon the broods of living creatures change,
Like runners handing on the lamp of life.
Greater or less solidity depends on the resilience of atoms. Their
ceaseless motion is illustrated by the turmoil of motes in a stream
of sunlight let into a dark room. As to their velocity, it greatly
exceeds that of the sun's rays. This welter of atoms is the product
of chance; the very blemishes of the world forbid one to regard it as
divine. But the atoms do not rain through space in rigidly parallel
lines. A minute swerve in their motion is essential to account for
clashings and production; and in the ethical sphere it is this swerve
which saves the mind from "Necessity" and makes free will possible.
Though the universe appears to be at rest, this is a fallacy of the
senses, due to the fact that the motions of "first bodies" are not
cognisable by our eyes; indeed, a similar phenomenon is the apparent
vanishing of motion due to distance; for a white spot on a far-off
hill may really be a frolicsome lamb.
Oft on a hillside, cropping herbage rich,
The woolly flocks creep on whithersoe'er
The grass bejewelled with fresh dew invites,
And full-fed lambs disport and butt in play--
All this to eyes at distance looks a blur;
On the green hill the white spot seems at rest.
The shapes of atoms vary; and so differences of species, and
differences within the same species, arise. This variety in shape
accounts, too, for the varying action and effects of atoms. Atoms
in hard bodies, for example, are mainly hooked; but in liquids
mainly smooth. In each thing, however, there are several kinds,
which furnish that particular thing with a variety of properties.
Furthermore, atoms are colourless, for in themselves they are
invisible; they never come into the light, whereas colour needs
light--witness the changing hues of the down on a pigeon's neck, or
of a peacock's tail. Atoms are themselves without senses, though they
produce things possessed of senses. To grasp the origin of species
and development of animate nature, one must realise the momentous
importance of the arrangement and interconnection of atoms. Wood
and other rotting bodies will bring forth worms, because material
particles undergo, under altered conditions, fresh permutations and
combinations. One may ask, what of man? He can laugh and weep, he
can discuss the composition of all things, and even inquire into the
nature of those very atoms! It is true that he springs from them. Yet
a man may laugh without being made of laughing atoms, and a man may
reason without being made of reasonable atoms!
EPICURUS AND THE GODS
O thou that from gross darkness first didst lift
A torch to light the path to happiness,
I follow thee, thou glory of the Greeks!
And in thy footsteps firmly plant my steps,
Not bent so much to rival as for love
To copy. Why should swallow vie with swan?
Thou, father, art discoverer of things,
Enriching us with all a father's lore;
And, famous master, from thy written page,
As bees in flowery dells sip every bloom,
So hold we feast on all thy golden words--
Golden, most worthy, aye, of lasting life.
Soon as thy reasoning, sprung from mind inspired,
Hath loud proclaimed the mystery of things,
The mind's fears flee, the bulwarks of the world
Part, and I see things work throughout the void.
Then Godhead is revealed in homes of calm,
Which neither tempests shake nor clouds with rain
Obscure, nor snow by piercing frost congealed
Mars with white fall, but ever cloudless air
Wraps in a smile of generous radiancy.
There nature, too, supplieth every want,
And nothing ever lessens peace of mind.
_III. --Of Mind and Soul and Death_
Mind and soul are portions of the body. While mind is the ruling
element, they are both of the nature of the body--only they are
composed of exceedingly minute and subtle atoms capable of marvellous
speed. Therefore, when death deprives the body of mind and soul, it
does not make the body appreciably lighter.
It is as if a wine had lost its scent,
Or breath of some sweet perfume had escaped.
Mind and soul consist of spirit, air, heat, and an elusive fourth
constituent, the nimblest and subtlest of essences, the very "soul of
the soul. " It follows that mind and soul are mortal. Among many proofs
may be adduced their close interconnection with the body, as seen
in cases of drunkenness and epilepsy; their curability by medicine;
their inability to recall a state prior to their incarnation;
their liability to be influenced by heredity like corporeal seeds.
Besides, why should an immortal soul need to quit the body at death?
Decay surely could not hurt immortality! Then, again, imagine souls
contending for homes in a body about to be born! Consequently, the
soul being mortal, death has no sting.
To us, then, death is nothing--matters naught,
Since mortal is the nature of the mind,
E'en as in bygone time we felt no grief
When Punic conflict hemmed all Rome around.
When, rent by war's dread turbulence, the world
Shuddered and quaked beneath the heaven's high realm,
So when we are no more, when soul and frame
Of which we are compact, have been divorced,
Be sure, to us, who then shall be no more,
Naught can occur or ever make us feel,
Not e'en though earth were blent with sea and sky.
Men in general forget that death, in ending life's pleasures, also
ends the need and the desire for them.
"Soon shall thy home greet thee in joy no more,
Nor faithful wife nor darling children run
To snatch first kiss, and stir within thy heart
Sweet thoughts too deep for words. Thou canst no more
Win wealth by working or defend thine own.
The pity of it! One fell hour," they say,
"Hath robbed thee of thine every prize in life. "
Hereat they add not this: "And now thou art
Beset with yearning for such things no more. "
The dead are to be envied, not lamented. The wise will exclaim: "Thou,
O dead, art free from pain: we who survive are full of tears. "
"What is so passing bitter," we should ask,
"If life be rounded by a rest and sleep,
That one should pine in never-ending grief? "
Universal nature has a rebuke for the coward that is afraid to die.
There are no punishments beyond. Hell and hell's tortures are in this
life. It is the victim of passion or of gnawing cares that is the real
victim of torment.
_IV--The World's Origin and Its Growth_
Not by design did primal elements
Find each their place as 'twere with forethought keen,
Nor bargained what their movements were to be;
But since the atom host in many ways
Smitten by blows for infinite ages back,
And by their weight impelled, have coursed along,
Have joined all ways, and made full test of all
The types which mutual unions could create,
Therefore it is that through great time dispersed,
With every kind of blend and motion tried,
They meet at length in momentary groups
Which oft prove rudiments of mighty things--
Of earth, and sea, and sky, and living breeds.
Amidst this primeval medley of warring atoms there was no sun-disk to
be discerned climbing the vault, no stars, or sea, or sky, or earth,
or air--nothing, in fact, like what now exists. The next stage came
when the several parts began to fly asunder, and like to join with
like, so that the parts of the world were gradually differentiated.
Heavier bodies combined in central chaos and forced out lighter
elements to make ether. Thus earth was formed by a long process of
condensation.
Daily, as ever more the ether-fires
And sun-rays all around close pressed the earth
With frequent blows upon its outer crust,
Each impact concentrating it perforce,
So was a briny sweat squeezed out the more
With ooze to swell the sea and floating plains.
PRIMEVAL FERTILITY OF THE EARTH
At first the earth produced all kinds of herbs
And verdant sheen o'er every hill and plain;
The flowery meadows gleamed in hues of green,
And soon the trees were gifted with desire
To race unbridled in the lists of growth;
As plumage, hair, and bristles are produced
On limbs of quadrupeds or frame of birds,
So the fresh earth then first put forth the grass
And shrubs, and next gave birth to mortal breeds,
Thick springing multiform in divers ways.
The name of "Mother," then, earth justly won,
Since from the earth all living creatures came.
Full many monsters earth essayed to raise,
Uprising strange of look and strange of limb,
Hermaphrodites distinct from either sex,
Some robbed of feet, and others void of hands,
Or mouthless mutes, or destitute of eyes,
Or bound by close adhesion of their limbs
So that they could do naught nor move at all,
Nor shun an ill, nor take what need required.
All other kinds of portents earth did yield--
In vain, since nature drove increase away,
They could not reach the longed-for bloom of life,
Nor find support, nor link themselves in love.
SURVIVAL OF THE FITTEST IN THE STRUGGLE FOR EXISTENCE
All things you see that draw the breath of life,
Have been protected and preserved by craft,
Or speed, or courage, from their early years;
And many beasts, which usefulness commends,
Abide domesticated in our care.
The protective quality in such animals as lions is ferocity; in
foxes, cunning; in stags, swiftness. Creatures without such natural
endowments of defence or utility tend to be the prey of others, and so
become extinct.
PRIMITIVE MAN
Primeval man was hardier in the fields,
As fitted those that hardy earth produced,
Built on a frame of larger, tougher bones
And knit with powerful sinews in his flesh;
Not likely to be hurt by heat or cold,
Or change of food, or wasting pestilence.
While many lustres of the sun revolved
Men led a life of roving like the beasts.
What sun or rain might give, or soil might yield
Unforced, was boon enough to sate the heart.
Oft 'neath the acorn-bearing oaks they found
Their food; and arbute-berries, which you now
In winter see turn ripe with scarlet hue,
Of old grew greater in luxuriance.
Through well known woodland haunts of nymphs they roamed,
Wherefrom they saw the gliding water brook
Bathe with a generous plash the dripping rocks--
Those dripping rocks that trickled o'er green moss.
As yet mankind did not know how to handle fire, or to clothe
themselves with the spoils of the chase; but dwelt in woods, or caves,
or other random shelter found in stress of weather. Each man lived for
himself, and might was right. The stone or club was used in hunting;
but the cave-dwellers were in frequent danger of being devoured by
beasts of prey. Still, savage mortality was no greater than that of
modern times.
THE EVOLVING OF CIVILISATION
When men had got them huts and skins and fire,
And woman joined with man to make a home,
And when they saw an offspring born from them,
Then first began the softening of the race.
Fire left them less inured with shivering frames
To bear the cold 'neath heaven's canopy.
Then neighbours turned to compacts mutual,
Desirous nor to do nor suffer harm.
They claimed for child and woman tenderness,
Declaring by their signs and stammering cries
That pity for the weak becometh all.
The rudiments of humane sentiments sprang, therefore, in prehistoric
family life. Language was the gradual outcome of natural cries,
not an arbitrary invention. The uses of fire were learned from the
lightning-flash and from conflagrations due to spontaneous combustion
or chance friction. In time this opened out the possibility of many
arts, such as metal-working; for forest fires caused streams of
silver, gold, copper, or lead to run into hollows, and early man
observed that when cooled, the glittering lumps retained the mould of
the cavities. Nature also was the model for sowing and grafting. Those
who excelled in mental endowment invented new modes of life. Towns and
strongholds were founded as places of defence; and possessions were
secured by personal beauty, strength, or cleverness. But the access of
riches often ousted the claims of both beauty and strength.
For men, though strong and fair to look upon,
Oft follow in the retinue of wealth.
Religious feelings were fostered by visions and dreams; marvellous
shapes to which savage man ascribed supernatural powers. Recurrent
appearances of such shapes induced a belief in their continuous
existence: so arose the notion of gods that live for ever.
Our navigation, tillage, walls, and laws,
Our armour, roads, and dress, and such-like boons,
And every elegance of modern life,
Poems and pictures, statues deftly wrought,
All these men learned with slow advancing steps
From practice and the knowledge won by wit.
So by degrees time brings each thing to sight,
And reason raiseth it to realms of day.
In arts must one thing, then another, shine,
Until they win their full development.
FOOTNOTES:
[V] To the Roman poet Titus Corus Lucretius (99-55 B. C. )
belongs the distinction of having made Epicureanism epic. Possessed by
a desire to free his fellow men from the trammels of superstition and
the dread of death, he composed his poem, "On the Nature of Things. "
His reasonings were based on the atomic theory, which the Greek
Epicurus had taken as the physical side of his system. In natural
law Lucretius found the true antidote to superstition, and from a
materialistic hypothesis of atoms and void he deduced everything.
Against the futilities of myth-religion he protested with the fervour
of an evangelist. On the ethical side, he accepted from Epicurus
the conception that the ideal lies in pleasure--not wild, sensual
pleasure, but that calm of mind which comes from temperate and refined
enjoyment, subdual of extravagant passion, and avoidance of political
entanglements. It is appropriate that the life of this apostle of
scientific quietism should be involved in obscurity. The story of his
insanity, so beautifully treated by Tennyson, may or may not be true.
It is hardly credible that a work so closely reasoned was, as a whole,
composed in lucid intervals between fits of madness; but, on the other
hand, there are signs of flagging in the later portions, and the work
comes to a sudden conclusion. The translations are specially made by
Prof. J. Wight Duff, and include a few extracts from his "Literary
History of Rome. "
JAMES MACPHERSON
Ossian[W]
_I. --Carthon_
A tale of the times of old--the deeds of days of other years.
Who comes from the land of strangers, with his thousands around him?
The sunbeam pours its bright stream before him; his hair meets the wind
of his hills. His face is settled from war. He is calm as the evening
beam that looks, from the cloud of the west, on Cona's silent vale. Who
is it but Fingal, the king of mighty deeds! The feast is spread around;
the night passed away in joy.
"Tell," said the mighty Fingal to Clessammor, "the tale of thy youthful
days. Let us hear the sorrow of thy youth, and the darkness of thy
days. "
"It was in the days of peace," replied the great Clessammor. "I came in
my bounding ship to Balclutha's walls of towers. Three days I remained
in Reuthamir's halls, and saw his daughter--that beam of light. Her
eyes were like the stars of night. My love for Moina was great; my
heart poured forth in joy.
"The son of a stranger came--a chief who loved the white-bosomed Moina.
The strength of his pride arose. We fought; he fell beneath my sword.
The banks of Clutha heard his fall, a thousand spears glittered around.
I fought; the strangers prevailed. I plunged into the stream of Clutha.
My white sails rose over the waves, and I bounded on the dark-blue sea.
Moina came to the shore, her loose hair flew on the wind, and I heard
her mournful, distant cries. Often did I turn my ship, but the winds of
the east prevailed. Nor Clutha ever since have I seen, nor Moina of the
dark-brown hair. She fell in Balclutha, for I have seen her ghost. I
knew her as she came through the dusky night, along the murmur of Lora.
She was like the new moon seen through the gathered mist, when the sky
pours down its flaky snow and the world is silent and dark. "
"Raise, ye bards," said the mighty Fingal, "the praise of unhappy
Moina. "
The night passed away in song; morning returned in joy. The mountains
showed their grey heads; the blue face of ocean smiled. But as the sun
rose on the sea Fingal and his heroes beheld a distant fleet. Like a
mist on the ocean came the strange ships, and discharged their youth
upon the coast. Carthon, their chief, was among them, like the stag in
the midst of the herd. He was a king of spears, and as he moved towards
Selma his thousands moved behind him.
"Go, with a song of peace," said Fingal. "Go, Ullin, to the king of
spears. Tell him that the ghosts of our foes are many; but renowned are
they who have feasted in my halls! "
When Ullin came to the mighty Carthon, he raised the song of peace.
"Come to the feast of Fingal, Carthon, from the rolling sea! Partake of
the feast of the king, or lift the spear of war. Behold that field, O
Carthon. Many a green hill rises there, with mossy stones and rustling
grass. These are the tombs of Fingal's foes, the sons of the rolling
sea! "
"Dost thou speak to the weak in arms," said Carthon, "bard of the
woody Morven? Have not I seen the fallen Balclutha? And shall I feast
with Fingal, the son of Comhal, who threw his fire in the midst of my
father's hall? I was young, and knew not the cause why the virgins
wept. But when the years of my youth came on, I beheld the moss of my
fallen walls; my sigh arose with the morning, and my tears descended
with night. Shall I not fight, I said to my soul, against the children
of my foes? And I will fight, O bard! I feel the strength of my soul. "
His people gathered round the hero, and drew their shining swords. The
spear trembled in his hand. Bending forward, he seemed to threaten the
king.
"Who of my chiefs," said Fingal, "will meet the son of the rolling sea?
Many are his warriors on the coast, and strong is his ashen spear. "
Cathul rose, in his strength, the son of the mighty Lormar. Three
hundred youths attend the chief, the race of his native streams. Feeble
was his arm against Carthon; he fell, and his heroes fled. Connal
resumed the battle, but he broke his heavy spear; he lay bound on the
field; Carthon pursued his people.
"Clessammor," said the king of Morven, "where is the spear of my
strength? Wilt thou behold Connal bound? "
Clessammor rose in the strength of his steel, shaking his grizzly
locks. He fitted the shield to his side; he rushed, in the pride of
valour.
Carthon saw the hero rushing on, and loved the dreadful joy of his
face; his strength, in the locks of age!
"Stately are his steps of age," he said. "Lovely the remnant of his
years! Perhaps it is the husband of Moina, the father of car-borne
Carthon. Often have I heard that he dwelt at the echoing stream of
Lora.
"
Such were his words, when Clessammor came, and lifted high his spear.
The youth received it on his shield, and spoke the words of peace.
"Warrior of the aged locks! Hast thou no son to raise the shield before
his father to meet the arm of youth? What will be the fame of my sword
shouldst thou fall? "
"It will be great, thou son of pride! " began the tall Clessammor. "I
have been renowned in battle, but I never told my name to a foe. Yield
to me, son of the wave; then shalt thou know that the mark of my sword
is in many a field. "
"I never yield, king of spears! " replied the noble pride of Carthon.
"Retire among thy friends! Let younger heroes fight. "
"Why dost thou wound my soul? " replied Clessammor, with a tear. "Age
does not tremble on my hand; I still can lift the sword. Shall I fly
in Fingal's sight, in the sight of him I love? Son of the sea, I never
fled! Exalt thy pointed spear! "
They fought, like two contending winds that strive to roll the wave.
Carthon bade his spear to err; he still thought that the foe was the
spouse of Moina. He broke Clessammor's beamy spear in twain; he seized
his shining sword. But as Carthon was binding the chief, the chief drew
the dagger of his fathers. He saw the foe's uncovered side, and opened
there a wound.
Fingal saw Clessammor low; he moved in the sound of his steel. The
host stood silent in his presence; they turned their eyes to the king.
He came, like the sullen noise of a storm before the winds arise.
Carthon stood in his place; the blood is rushing down his side; he saw
the coming down of the king. Pale was his cheek; his hair flew loose,
his helmet shook on high. The force of Carthon failed, but his soul was
strong.
"King of Morven," Carthon said, "I fall in the midst of my course.
But raise my remembrance on the banks of Lora, where my father dwelt.
Perhaps the husband of Moina will mourn over his fallen Carthon. "
His words reached Clessammor. He fell, in silence, on his son. The host
stood darkened around; no voice is on the plain. Night came; the moon
from the east looked on the mournful field; but still they stood, like
a silent grove that lifts its head on Gormal, when the loud winds are
laid, and dark autumn is on the plain; and then they died.
Fingal was sad for Carthon; he commanded his bards to sing the hero's
praise. Ossian joined them, and this was his song: "My soul has been
mournful for Carthon; he fell in the days of his youth. And thou, O
Clessammor, where is thy dwelling in the wind? Has the youth forgot
his wound? Flies he, on clouds, with thee? Perhaps they may come to my
dreams. I think I hear a feeble voice! The beam of heaven delights to
shine on the grave of Carthon. I feel it warm around.
"O thou that rollest above, round as the shield of my fathers! Whence
are thy beams, O sun, thy everlasting light? Thou comest forth in thy
awful beauty; the stars hide themselves in the sky; the moon, cold and
pale, sinks in the western wave. But thou thyself movest alone. Who
can be a companion of thy course? The oaks of the mountains fall; the
mountains themselves decay with years; the ocean shrinks and grows
again; the moon herself is lost in heaven; but thou art for ever the
same, rejoicing in the brightness of thy course.
"When the world is dark with tempests; when thunder rolls, and
lightning flies, thou lookest in thy beauty from the clouds, and
laughest at the storm. But to Ossian thou lookest in vain, for he
beholds thy beams no more; whether thy yellow hair flows on the eastern
clouds, or thou tremblest at the gates of the west. But thou art
perhaps, like me, for a season; thy years will have an end. Thou shalt
sleep in thy clouds; careless of the voice of the morning. Exult thee,
O sun, in the strength of thy youth! Age is dark and unlovely. It is
like the glimmering light of the moon when it shines through broken
clouds and the mist is on the hills; the blast of north is on the
plain; the traveller shrinks in the midst of his journey. "
_II. --Darthula_
Daughter of heaven, fair art thou! The silence of thy face is pleasant!
Thou comest forth in loveliness. The stars attend thy blue course in
the east. The clouds rejoice in thy presence, O moon! Look from thy
gates in the sky. Burst the cloud, O wind, that the daughter of night
may look forth, that the shaggy mountains may brighten, and the ocean
roll its white waves in light!
Nathos is on the deep, and Althos, that beam of youth. Ardan is near
his brothers. They move in the gloom of their course. The sons of
Usnoth move in darkness, from the wrath of Cairbar of Erin. Who is
that, dim, by their side? The night has covered her beauty! Who is it
but Darthula, the first of Erin's maids? She has fled from the love
of Caribar, with blue-shielded Nathos. But the winds deceive thee, O
Darthula! They deny the woody Etha to thy sails. These are not the
mountains of Nathos; nor is that the roar of his climbing waves. The
halls of Cairbar are near; the towers of the foe lift their heads! Erin
stretches its green head into the sea. Tura's bay receives the ship.
Where have ye been, ye southern winds, when the sons of my love were
deceived? But ye have been sporting on plains, pursuing the thistle's
beard. Oh that ye had been rustling in the sails of Nathos till the
hills of Etha arose; till they arose in their clouds, and saw their
returning chief!
Long hast thou been absent, Nathos--the day of thy return is past!
Lovely thou wast in the eyes of Darthula. Thy soul was generous and
mild, like the hour of the setting sun. But when the rage of battle
rose, thou wast a sea in a storm. The clang of thy arms was terrible;
the host vanished at the sound of thy coarse. It was then Darthula
beheld thee from the top of her mossy tower; from the tower of Selama,
where her fathers dwelt.
"Lovely art thou, O stranger! " she said, for her trembling soul arose.
"Fair art thou in thy battles, friend of the fallen Cormac! Why dost
thou rush on in thy valour, youth of the ruddy look? Few are thy hands
in fight against the dark-browed Cairbar! Oh that I might be freed from
his love--that I might rejoice in the presence of Nathos! "
Such were thy words, Darthula, in Selama's mossy towers. But now the
night is around thee. The winds have deceived thy sails, Darthula!
Cease a little while, O north wind! Let me hear the voice of the
lovely. Thy voice is lovely, Darthula, between the rustling blasts!
"Are these the rocks of Nathos? " she said. "This the roar of his
mountain streams? Comes that beam of light from Usnoth's mighty hall?
The mist spreads around; the beam is feeble and distant far. But the
light of Darthula's soul dwells in the chief of Etha! Son of the
generous Usnoth, why that broken sigh? Are we in the land of strangers,
chief of echoing Etha? "
"These are not the rocks of Nathos," he replied, "nor this the roar
of his streams. We are in the land of strangers, in the land of cruel
Cairbar. The winds have deceived us, Darthula. Erin lifts here her
hills. Go towards the north, Althos; be thy steps, Ardan, along the
coast; that the foe may not come in darkness, and our hopes of Etha
fail. I will go towards that mossy tower to see who dwells about the
beam. "
He went. She sat alone; she heard the rolling of the wave. The big tear
is in her eye. She looks for returning Nathos.
He returned, but his face was dark.
"Why art thou sad, O Nathos? " said the lovely daughter of Colla.
"We are in the land of foes," replied the hero. "The winds have
deceived us, Darthula. The strength of our friends is not near, nor the
mountains of Etha. Where shall I find thy peace, daughter of mighty
Colla? The brothers of Nathos are brave, and his own sword has shone
in fight! But what are the sons of Usnoth to the host of dark-browed
Cairbar? Oh that the winds had brought thy sails, Oscar, king of men!
Thou didst promise to come to the battles of fallen Cormac! Cairbar
would tremble in his halls, and peace dwell round the lovely Darthula.
But why dost thou fall, my soul? The sons of Usnoth may prevail! "
"And they will prevail, O Nathos! " said the rising soul of the maid.
"Never shall Darthula behold the halls of gloomy Cairbar. Give me those
arms of brass, that glitter to the passing meteor. I see them dimly in
the dark-bosomed ship. Darthula will enter the battle of steel. "
Joy rose in the face of Nathos when he heard the white-bosomed maid. He
looks towards the coming of Cairbar. The wind is rustling in his hair.
Darthula is silent at his side. Her look is fixed on the chief. She
strives to hide the rising sigh.
Morning rose with its beams. The sons of Erin appear, like grey rocks,
with all their trees; they spread along the coast. Cairbar stood in the
midst. He grimly smiled when he saw the foe. Nathos rushed forward, in
his strength; nor could Darthula stay behind. She came with the hero,
lifting her shining spear.
"Come," said Nathos to Cairbar--"come, chief of high Temora! Let our
battle be on the coast, for the white-bosomed maid. His people are not
with Nathos; they are behind these rolling seas. Why dost thou bring
thy thousands against the chief of Etha? "
"Youth of the heart of pride," replied Cairbar, "shall Erin's king
fight with thee? Thy fathers were not among the renowned, and Cairbar
does not fight with feeble men! "
The tear started from car-borne Nathos. He turned his eyes to his
brothers. Their spears flew at once. Three heroes lay on earth. Then
the light of their swords gleamed on high. The ranks of Erin yield, as
a ridge of dark clouds before a blast of wind! Then Cairbar ordered his
people, and they drew a thousand bows. A thousand arrows flew. The sons
of Usnoth fell in blood. They fell like three young oaks, which stood
alone on the hill. The traveller saw the lovely trees, and wondered how
they grew so lonely; the blast of the desert came by night, and laid
their green heads low; next day he returned, but they were withered,
and the heath was bare!
Darthula stood in silent grief, and beheld their fall! Pale was her
cheek. Her trembling lips broke short a half-formed word. Her breast
of snow appeared. It appeared; but it was stained with blood. An arrow
was fixed in her side. She fell on the fallen Nathos, like a wreath of
snow! Her hair spreads wide on his face. Their blood is mixing round!
"Daughter of Colla--thou art low! " said Cairbar's hundred bards. "When
wilt thou rise in thy beauty, first of Erin's maids? Thy sleep is
long in the tomb. The sun shall not come to thy bed and say, 'Awake,
Darthula! Awake thou first of women! The wind of spring is abroad. The
flowers shake their heads on the green hills. The winds wave their
growing leaves. ' Retire, O sun, the daughter of Colla is asleep! She
will not come forth in her beauty. She will not move in the steps of
her loveliness! "
Such was the song of the bards when they raised the tomb. I, too, sang
over the grave when the king of Morven came to green Erin to fight with
the car-borne Cairbar!
FOOTNOTES:
[W] No ancient or modern work in the history of literature has
excited such wild admiration and such profound contempt as the "Ossian"
of James Macpherson. It was Napoleon's favourite work; he carried it
with him to Egypt and took it to St. Helena. Byron and Goethe and
Chateaubriand were also touched to enthusiasm by it. Its author--or,
as some still think, its editor--was a Scottish schoolmaster, James
Macpherson, born at Ruthven, in Inverness-shire on October 27, 1736.
The first part of the work, entitled "Fragments of Ancient Poetry,
Collected in the Highlands of Scotland, and Translated from the Gaelic,
or Erse, Language," was published in 1760; "Fingal" appeared in 1762,
and "Temora" in the following year. Doctor Johnson said of Macpherson:
"He has found names, and stories, and phrases, nay, passages in old
songs, and with them has blended his own compositions, and so made
what he gives to the world as the translation of an ancient poem"; and
this verdict is now confirmed by the best authorities. Nevertheless,
"Ossian" is a work of considerable merit and great historic interest.
It contains some fine passages of real poetry, such as the invocation
to the sun with which "Carthon" concludes, and it has served to attract
universal attention to the magnificent Celtic traditions of Scotland
and Ireland.
