The Death of Calmar and Orla. an Imitation of MacPherson's "Ossian"
Lines:122Movement:Romanticism
Dear are the days of youth! Age dwells on their remembrance through themist of time. In the twilight he recalls the sunny hours of morn. Helifts his spear with trembling hand. "Not thus feebly did I raise thesteel before my fathers!" Past is the race of heroes! But their famerises on the harp; their souls ride on the wings of the wind; they hearthe sound through the sighs of the storm, and rejoice in their hall ofclouds. Such is Calmar. The grey stone marks his narrow house. He looksdown from eddying tempests: he rolls his form in the whirlwind, andhovers on the blast of the mountain. In Morven dwelt the Chief; a beam of war to Fingal. His steps in thefield were marked in blood. Lochlin's sons had fled before his angryspear; but mild was the eye of Calmar; soft was the flow of hisyellow locks: they streamed like the meteor of the night. No maid wasthe sigh of his soul: his thoughts were given to friendship,--todark-haired Orla, destroyer of heroes! Equal were their swords inbattle; but fierce was the pride of Orla:--gentle alone to Calmar.Together they dwelt in the cave of Oithona. From Lochlin, Swaran bounded o'er the blue waves. Erin's sons fellbeneath his might. Fingal roused his chiefs to combat. Their shipscover the ocean! Their hosts throng on the green hills. They come to theaid of Erin. Night rose in clouds. Darkness veils the armies. But the blazing oaksgleam through the valley. The sons of Lochlin slept: their dreamswere of blood. They lift the spear in thought, and Fingal flies. Not sothe Host of Morven. To watch was the post of Orla. Calmar stood by hisside. Their spears were in their hands. Fingal called his chiefs: theystood around. The king was in the midst. Grey were his locks, but strongwas the arm of the king. Age withered not his powers. "Sons of Morven,"said the hero, "to-morrow we meet the foe. But where is Cuthullin, theshield of Erin? He rests in the halls of Tura; he knows not of ourcoming. Who will speed through Lochlin, to the hero, and call the chiefto arms? The path is by the swords of foes; but many are my heroes. Theyare thunderbolts of war. Speak, ye chiefs! Who will arise?" "Son of Trenmor! mine be the deed," said dark-haired Orla, "and minealone. What is death to me? I love the sleep of the mighty, but littleis the danger. The sons of Lochlin dream. I will seek car-borneCuthullin. If I fall, raise the song of bards; and lay me by the streamof Lubar."--"And shalt thou fall alone?" said fair-haired Calmar. "Wiltthou leave thy friend afar? Chief of Oithona! not feeble is my arm infight. Could I see thee die, and not lift the spear? No, Orla! ours hasbeen the chase of the roebuck, and the feast of shells; ours be the pathof danger: ours has been the cave of Oithona; ours be the narrowdwelling on the banks of Lubar."--"Calmar," said the chief of Oithona,"why should thy yellow locks be darkened in the dust of Erin? Let mefall alone. My father dwells in his hall of air: he will rejoice in hisboy; but the blue-eyed Mora spreads the feast for her Son in Morven. Shelistens to the steps of the hunter on the heath, and thinks it is thetread of Calmar. Let her not say, 'Calmar has fallen by the steel ofLochlin: he died with gloomy Orla, the chief of the dark brow.' Whyshould tears dim the azure eye of Mora? Why should her voice curse Orla,the destroyer of Calmar? Live Calmar! Live to raise my stone of moss;live to revenge me in the blood of Lochlin. Join the song of bards abovemy grave. Sweet will be the song of Death to Orla, from the voice ofCalmar. My ghost shall smile on the notes of Praise." "Orla," said theson of Mora, "could I raise the song of Death to my friend? Could I givehis fame to the winds? No, my heart would speak in sighs: faint andbroken are the sounds of sorrow. Orla! our souls shall hear the songtogether. One cloud shall be ours on high: the bards will mingle thenames of Orla and Calmar." They quit the circle of the Chiefs. Their steps are to the Host ofLochlin. The dying blaze of oak dim-twinkles through the night. Thenorthern star points the path to Tura. Swaran, the King, rests on hislonely hill. Here the troops are mixed: they frown in sleep; theirshields beneath their heads. Their swords gleam, at distance in heaps.The fires are faint; their embers fail in smoke. All is hushed; but thegale sighs on the rocks above. Lightly wheel the Heroes through theslumbering band. Half the journey is past, when Mathon, resting on hisshield, meets the eye of Orla. It rolls in flame, and glistens throughthe shade. His spear is raised on high. "Why dost thou bend thy brow,chief of Oithona?" said fair-haired Calmar: "we are in the midst offoes. Is this a time for delay?" "It is a time for vengeance," said Orlaof the gloomy brow. "Mathon of Lochlin sleeps: seest thou his spear? Itspoint is dim with the gore of my father. The blood of Mathon shall reekon mine: but shall I slay him sleeping, Son of Mora? No! he shall feelhis wound: my fame shall not soar on the blood of slumber. Rise, Mathon,rise! The Son of Conna calls; thy life is his; rise to combat." Mathonstarts from sleep: but did he rise alone? No: the gathering Chiefs boundon the plain. "Fly! Calmar, fly!" said dark-haired Orla. "Mathon ismine. I shall die in joy: but Lochlin crowds around. Fly through theshade of night." Orla turns. The helm of Mathon is cleft; his shieldfalls from his arm: he shudders in his blood. He rolls by the sideof the blazing oak. Strumon sees him fall: his wrath rises: his weaponglitters on the head of Orla: but a spear pierced his eye. His braingushes through the wound, and foams on the spear of Calmar. As roll thewaves of the Ocean on two mighty barks of the North, so pour the men ofLochlin on the Chiefs. As, breaking the surge in foam, proudly steer thebarks of the North, so rise the Chiefs of Morven on the scattered crestsof Lochlin. The din of arms came to the ear of Fingal. He strikes hisshield; his sons throng around; the people pour along the heath. Rynobounds in joy. Ossian stalks in his arms. Oscar shakes the spear. Theeagle wing of Fillan floats on the wind. Dreadful is the clang of death!many are the Widows of Lochlin. Morven prevails in its strength. Morn glimmers on the hills: no living foe is seen; but the sleepers aremany; grim they lie on Erin. The breeze of Ocean lifts their locks; yetthey do not awake. The hawks scream above their prey. Whose yellow locks wave o'er the breast of a chief? Bright as the goldof the stranger, they mingle with the dark hair of his friend. 'TisCalmar: he lies on the bosom of Orla. Theirs is one stream of blood.Fierce is the look of the gloomy Orla. He breathes not; but his eye isstill a flame. It glares in death unclosed. His hand is grasped inCalmar's; but Calmar lives! he lives, though low. "Rise," said the king,"rise, son of Mora: 'tis mine to heal the wounds of Heroes. Calmar mayyet bound on the hills of Morven." "Never more shall Calmar chase the deer of Morven with Orla," said theHero. "What were the chase to me alone? Who would share the spoils ofbattle with Calmar? Orla is at rest! Rough was thy soul, Orla! yet softto me as the dew of morn. It glared on others in lightning: to me asilver beam of night. Bear my sword to blue-eyed Mora; let it hang in myempty hall. It is not pure from blood: but it could not save Orla. Layme with my friend: raise the song when I am dark!" They are laid by the stream of Lubar. Four grey stones mark the dwellingof Orla and Calmar. When Swaran was bound, our sails rose on the bluewaves. The winds gave our barks to Morven:--the bards raised the song. "What Form rises on the roar of clouds? Whose dark Ghost gleams on thered streams of tempests? His voice rolls on the thunder. 'Tis Orla, thebrown Chief of Oithona. He was unmatched in war. Peace to thy soul,Orla! thy fame will not perish. Nor thine, Calmar! Lovely wast thou, sonof blue-eyed Mora; but not harmless was thy sword. It hangs in thy cave.The Ghosts of Lochlin shriek around its steel. Hear thy praise, Calmar!It dwells on the voice of the mighty. Thy name shakes on the echoes ofMorven. Then raise thy fair locks, son of Mora. Spread them on the archof the rainbow, and smile through the tears of the storm.