Poem VIII

By the side of a rock on the hill, beneaththe aged trees, old Osciansat on the moss; the last of the race ofFingal. Sightless are his aged eyes;his beard is waving in the wind. Dullthrough the leafless trees he heard thevoice of the north. Sorrow revived inhis soul: he began and lamented thedead.

How hast thou fallen like an oak,with all thy branches round thee! Whereis Fingal the King? where is Oscur myson? where are all my race? Alas! inthe earth they lie. I feel their tombswith my hands. I hear the river belowmurmuring hoarsely over the stones.What dost thou, O river, to me? Thoubringest back the memory of the past.

The race of Fingal stood on thybanks, like a wood in a fertile soil.Keen were their spears of steel. Hardywas he who dared to encounter theirrage. Fillan the great was there. ThouOscur wert there, my son! Fingal himselfwas there, strong in the grey locksof years. Full rose his sinewy limbs;and wide his shoulders spread. Theunhappy met with his arm, when thepride of his wrath arose.

The son of Morny came; Gaul, thetallest of men. He stood on the hill likean oak; his voice was like the streams ofthe hill. Why reigneth alone, he cries,the son of the mighty Corval? Fingal isnot strong to save: he is no support forthe people. I am strong as a storm inthe ocean; as a whirlwind on the hill.Yield, son of Corval; Fingal, yield tome.

Oscur stood forth to meet him;my son would meet the foe. But Fingalcame in his strength, and smiled atthe vaunter's boast. They threw theirarms round each other; they struggledon the plain. The earth is ploughed withtheir heels. Their bones crack as the boaton the ocean, when it leaps from wave towave. Long did they toil; with night,they fell on the sounding plain; as twooaks, with their branches mingled, fallcrashing from the hill. The tall sonof Morny is bound; the aged overcame.

Fair with her locks of gold, hersmooth neck, and her breasts of snow;fair, as the spirits of the hill when atsilent noon they glide along the heath;fair, as the rainbow of heaven; cameMinvane the maid. Fingal! She softlysaith, loose me my brother Gaul.Loose me the hope of my race, the terrorof all but Fingal. Can I, replies theKing, can I deny the lovely daughterof the hill? take thy brother, O Minvane,thou fairer than the snow of thenorth!

Such, Fingal! were thy words; butthy words I hear no more. SightlessI sit by thy tomb. I hear the wind inthe wood; but no more I hear myfriends. The cry of the hunter is over.The voice of war is ceased.