Fragments Of Ancient Poetry, Fragment VIII

By the side of a rock on the hill, beneath     the aged trees, old Oscian     sat on the moss; the last of the race of     Fingal. Sightless are his aged eyes;     his beard is waving in the wind. Dull     through the leafless trees he heard the     voice of the north. Sorrow revived in     his soul: he began and lamented the     dead.     How hast thou fallen like an oak,     with all thy branches round thee! Where     is Fingal the King? where is Oscur my     son? where are all my race? Alas! in     the earth they lie. I feel their tombs     with my hands. I hear the river below     murmuring hoarsely over the stones.     What dost thou, O river, to me? Thou     bringest back the memory of the past.     The race of Fingal stood on thy     banks, like a wood in a fertile soil.     Keen were their spears of steel. Hardy     was he who dared to encounter their     rage. Fillan the great was there. Thou     Oscur wert there, my son! Fingal himself     was there, strong in the grey locks     of years. Full rose his sinewy limbs;     and wide his shoulders spread. The     unhappy met with his arm, when the     pride of his wrath arose.     The son of Morny came; Gaul, the     tallest of men. He stood on the hill like     an oak; his voice was like the streams of     the hill. Why reigneth alone, he cries,     the son of the mighty Corval? Fingal is     not strong to save: he is no support for     the people. I am strong as a storm in     the ocean; as a whirlwind on the hill.     Yield, son of Corval; Fingal, yield to     me.     Oscur stood forth to meet him;     my son would meet the foe. But Fingal     came in his strength, and smiled at     the vaunter's boast. They threw their     arms round each other; they struggled     on the plain. The earth is ploughed with     their heels. Their bones crack as the boat     on the ocean, when it leaps from wave to     wave. Long did they toil; with night,     they fell on the sounding plain; as two     oaks, with their branches mingled, fall     crashing from the hill. The tall son     of Morny is bound; the aged overcame.     Fair with her locks of gold, her     smooth neck, and her breasts of snow;     fair, as the spirits of the hill when at     silent noon they glide along the heath;     fair, as the rainbow of heaven; came     Minvane the maid. Fingal! She softly     saith, loose me my brother Gaul.     Loose me the hope of my race, the terror     of all but Fingal. Can I, replies the     King, can I deny the lovely daughter     of the hill? take thy brother, O Minvane,     thou fairer than the snow of the     north!     Such, Fingal! were thy words; but     thy words I hear no more. Sightless     I sit by thy tomb. I hear the wind in     the wood; but no more I hear my     friends. The cry of the hunter is over.     The voice of war is ceased.