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.