[FINGAL'S ROMANTIC GENEROSITY TOWARD HIS CAPTIVE ENEMY]
'King of Lochlin,' said Fingal, 'thy blood flows in the
veins of thy foe. Our fathers met in battle, because they
loved the strife of spears. But often did they feast in the
hall, and send round the joy of the shell. Let thy face
brighten with gladness, and thine ear delight in the harp.
Dreadful as the storm of thine ocean, thou hast poured thy
valour forth; thy voice has been like the voice of thousands
when they engage in war. Raise, to-morrow, raise
thy white sails to the wind, thou brother of Agandecca!
Bright as the beam of noon, she comes on my mournful
soul. I have seen thy tears for the fair one. I spared
thee in the halls of Starno, when my sword was red with
slaughter, when my eye was full of tears for the maid.
Or dost thou choose the fight? The combat which thy
fathers gave to Trenmor is thine! that thou mayest depart
renowned, like the sun setting in the west!'
'King of the race of Morven!' said the chief of resounding
Lochlin, 'never will Swaran fight with thee, first of a
thousand heroes! I have seen thee in the halls of Starno:
few were thy years beyond my own. When shall I, I
said to my soul, lift the spear like the noble Fingal? We
have fought heretofore, O warrior, on the side of the
shaggy Malmor; after my waves had carried me to thy
halls, and the feast of a thousand shells was spread. Let
the bards send his name who overcame to future years,
for noble was the strife of Malmour! But many of the
ships of Lochlin have lost their youths on Lena. Take
these, thou king of Morven, and be the friend of Swaran!
When thy sons shall come to Gormal, the feast of shells
shall be spread, and the combat offered on the vale.'
'Nor ship' replied the king, 'shall Fingal take, nor land
of many hills. The desert is enough to me, with all its
deer and woods. Rise on thy waves again, thou noble
friend of Agandecca! Spread thy white sails to the beam
of the morning; return to the echoing hills of Gormal.'
'Blest be thy soul, thou king of shells,' said Swaran of the
dark-brown shield. 'In peace thou art the gale of spring.
In war, the mountain-storm. Take now my hand in
friendship, king of echoing Selma! Let thy bards mourn
those who fell. Let Erin give the sons of Lochlin to
earth. Raise high the mossy stones of their fame: that
the children of the north hereafter may behold the place
where their fathers fought. The hunter may say, when he
leans on a mossy tomb, here Fingal and Swaran fought,
the heroes of other years. Thus hereafter shall he say,
and our fame shall last for ever!'
'Swaran,' said the king of hills, 'to-day our fame is
greatest. We shall pass away like a dream. No sound
will remain in our fields of war. Our tombs will be lost
in the heath. The hunter shall not know the place of our
rest. Our names may be heard in song. What avails it
when our strength hath ceased? O Ossian, Carril, and
Ullin! you know of heroes that are no more. Give us the
song of other years. Let the night pass away on the sound,
and morning return with joy.'
We gave the song to the kings. A hundred harps mixed
their sound with our voice. The face of Swaran brightened,
like the full moon of heaven: when the clouds
vanish away, and leave her calm and broad in the midst
of the sky.