Fragments Of Ancient Poetry, Fragment XV

[1]Where is Gealchossa my love, the
daughter of Tuathal-Teachvar?
I left her in the hall of the plain, when I
fought with the hairy Ulfadha. Return
soon, she said, O Lamderg! for
here I wait in sorrow. Her white breaft
rose with sighs; her cheek was wet
with tears. But she cometh not to meet
Lamderg; or sooth his soul after battle.
Silent is the hall of joy; I hear not
the voice of the singer. Brann does
not shake his chains at the gate, glad
at the coming of his master. Where
is Gealchossa my love, the daughter of
Tuathal-Teachvar?

[Footnote: The signification of the names in this fragment are; Gealchossack, white-legged. Tuathal-Teachtmhar, the surly, but fortunate man. Lambhdearg, bloodyhand. Ulfadba, long beard. Fichios, the conqueror of men.]

Lamderg! says Firchios son of Aydon,
Gealchossa may be on the hill;
she and her chosen maids pursuing the
flying deer.

Firchios! no noise I hear. No
sound in the wood of the hill. No
deer fly in my sight; no panting dog
pursueth. I see not Gealchossa my
love; fair as the full moon setting on
the hills of Cromleach. Go, Firchios!
go to Allad, the grey-haired son of
the rock. He liveth in the circle of
stones; he may tell of Gealchossa.

[Footnote: Allad is plainly a Druid consulted on this occasion.]

Allad! saith Firchios, thou who
dwellest in the rock; thou who tremblest
alone; what saw thine eyes of
age?

I saw, answered Allad the old, Ullin the son of Carbre: He came like a
cloud from the hill; he hummed a surly
song as he came, like a storm in
leafless wood. He entered the hall of
the plain. Lamderg, he cried, most
dreadful of men! fight, or yield to Ullin.
Lamderg, replied Gealchoffa,
Lamderg is not here: he fights the
hairy Ulfadha; mighty man, he is not
here. But Lamderg never yields; he
will fight the son of Carbre. Lovely art
thou, O daughter of Tuathal-Teachvar!
said Ullin. I carry thee to the
house of Carbre; the valiant shall have
Gealchossa. Three days from the top
of Cromleach will I call Lamderg to
fight. The fourth, you belong to Ullin,
if Lamderg die, or fly my sword.

Allad! peace to thy dreams!--found
the horn, Firchios!--Ullin may
hear, and meet me on the top of Cromleach.

Lamderg rushed on like a storm.
On his spear he leaped over rivers. Few
were his strides up the hill. The rocks
fly back from his heels; loud crashing
they bound to the plain. His armour,
his buckler rung. He hummed a surly
song, like the noise of the falling
stream. Dark as a cloud he stood above;
his arms, like meteors, shone.
From the summit of the hill, he rolled
a rock. Ullin heard in the hall of
Carbre.--

James Macpherson

James Macpherson was a Scottish writer, poet, and politician, known primarily for his role in the Ossianic controversy. Macpherson claimed to have found and translated the works of an ancient Gaelic poet named Ossian, which gained widespread popularity but were later disputed as partly his creation. His work had a significant impact on the Romantic movement of the 18th century. Apart from his literary pursuits, he also served as a Member of Parliament from 1780 to 1790. His works bridged the gap between folklore and modern literary forms.

James Macpherson

Fragments Of Ancient Poetry, Fragment VIII

James Macpherson, Simple Poetry

Fragments Of Ancient Poetry, Fragment IV

James Macpherson, Simple Poetry

Fragments Of Ancient Poetry, Fragment XI

James Macpherson, Simple Poetry

Fragments Of Ancient Poetry, Fragment VII

James Macpherson, Simple Poetry

English

Suggested Poems

Explore a curated selection of verses that share themes, styles, and emotional resonance with the poem you've just read.

Fragments Of Ancient Poetry, Fragment XIII

[Footnote: This is the opening of the epic poem mentioned in the preface. The two following fragments are parts of some episodes of the same work.]

Cuchlaid sat by the wall; by the
tree of the rustling leaf.

[Footnote: The aspen or poplar tree]

His spear leaned against the mossy rock.
His shield lay by him on the grass.
Whilst he thought on the mighty Carbre
whom he slew in battle, the scout of
the ocean came, Moran the son of Fithil.

Rise, Cuchulaid, rise! I see the ships
of Garve. Many are the foe, Cuchulaid;
many the sons of Lochlyn.

Moran! thou ever tremblest; thy
fears increase the foe. They are the
ships of the Desert of hills arrived to assist
Cuchulaid.

I saw their chief, says Moran, tall as
a rock of ice. His s...

James Macpherson

Fragments Of Ancient Poetry, Fragment IV

CONNAL,    CRIMORA,

CRIMORA.

Who cometh from the hill, like
a cloud tinged with the beam
of the west? Whose voice is that, loud
as the wind, but pleasant as the harp of
Carryl? It is my love in the light of
steel; but sad is his darkened brow.
Live the mighty race of Fingal? or
what disturbs my Connal?

CONNAL.

They live. I saw them return from
the chace, like a stream of light. The
sun was on their shields: In a line they
descended the hill. Loud is the voice of
the youth; the war, my love, is near.
To-morrow the enormous Dargo comes
to try the force of our race. The race of
Fingal he defies; the race of battle and
wounds.

CRIMORA.
Connal, I saw his sails like grey mist
on the sable wave. They came to...

James Macpherson

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...

James Macpherson

Fragments Of Ancient Poetry, Fragment XI

Sad! I am sad indeed: nor small my
cause of woe!--Kirmor, thou hast
lost no son; thou hast lost no daughter
of beauty. Connar the valiant lives;
and Annir the fairest of maids. The
boughs of thy family flourish, O Kirmor!
but Armyn is the last of his
race.

Rise, winds of autumn, rise; blow
upon the dark heath! streams of the
mountains, roar! howl, ye tempests,
in the trees! walk through broken
clouds, O moon! show by intervals thy
pale face! bring to my mind that sad
night, when all my children fell; when
Arindel the mighty fell; when Daura
the lovely died.

Daura, my daughter! thou wert
fair; fair as the moon on the hills of
Jura; white as the driven snow; sweet as
the breathing gale. Armor renowned in
war came, and fought ...

James Macpherson

Fragments Of Ancient Poetry, Fragment VI

Son of the noble Fingal, Oscian,
Prince of men! what tears run down
the cheeks of age? what shades thy
mighty soul?

Memory, son of Alpin, memory
wounds the aged. Of former times are
my thoughts; my thoughts are of the
noble Fingal. The race of the king return
into my mind, and wound me with
remembrance.

One day, returned from the sport of
the mountains, from pursuing the sons
of the hill, we covered this heath with
our youth. Fingal the mighty was here,
and Oscur, my son, great in war. Fair
on our sight from the sea, at once, a
virgin came. Her breast was like the
snow of one night. Her cheek like the
bud of the rose. Mild was her blue
rolling eye: but sorrow was big in her
heart.

Fingal renowned in war! she cries,

James Macpherson

Fragments Of Ancient Poetry, Fragment V

Autumn is dark on the mountains;
grey mist rests on the hills. The
whirlwind is heard on the heath. Dark
rolls the river through the narrow plain.
A tree stands alone on the hill, and
marks the grave of Connal. The leaves
whirl round with the wind, and strew
the grave of the dead. At times are
seen here the ghosts of the deceased,
when the musing hunter alone stalks
slowly over the heath.

Who can reach the source of thy
race, O Connal? and who recount thy
Fathers? Thy family grew like an oak
on the mountain, which meeteth the
wind with its lofty head. But now it
is torn from the earth. Who shall supply
the place of Connal?

Here was the din of arms; and
here the groans of the dying. Mournful
are the wars of Fingal! O Connal!

James Macpherson