Poem V

Autumn is dark on the mountains;grey mist rests on the hills. Thewhirlwind is heard on the heath. Darkrolls the river through the narrow plain.A tree stands alone on the hill, andmarks the grave of Connal. The leaveswhirl round with the wind, and strewthe grave of the dead. At times areseen here the ghosts of the deceased,when the musing hunter alone stalksslowly over the heath.

Who can reach the source of thyrace, O Connal? and who recount thyFathers? Thy family grew like an oakon the mountain, which meeteth thewind with its lofty head. But now itis torn from the earth. Who shall supplythe place of Connal?

Here was the din of arms; andhere the groans of the dying. Mournfulare the wars of Fingal! O Connal!it was here thou didst fall. Thine armwas like a storm; thy sword, a beamof the sky; thy height, a rock on theplain; thine eyes, a furnace of fire.Louder than a storm was thy voice,when thou confoundedst the field. Warriorsfell by thy sword, as the thistle bythe staff of a boy.

Dargo the mighty came on, like acloud of thunder. His brows were contractedand dark. His eyes like twocaves in a rock. Bright rose theirswords on each side; dire was the clangof their steel.

The daughter of Rinval was near;Crimora, bright in the armour of man;her hair loose behind, her bow in herhand. She followed the youth to thewar, Connal her much beloved. Shedrew the string on Dargo; but erringpierced her Connal. He falls like anoak on the plain; like a rock from theshaggy hill. What shall she do, haplessmaid!--He bleeds; her Connal dies.All the night long she cries, and all theday, O Connal, my love, and myfriend! With grief the sad mournerdied.

Earth here incloseth the loveliestpair on the hill. The grass grows betweenthe stones of their tomb; I sit inthe mournful shade. The wind sighsthrough the grass; and their memoryrushes on my mind. Undisturbed younow sleep together; in the tomb of themountain you rest alone.