Fragments Of Ancient Poetry, Fragment 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.