CROMA
:
A
POEM
Malvina
the
daughter
of
Toscar
is
overheard
by
Ossian
lamenting
the
death
of
Oscar
her
lover
.
Ossian
,
to
divert
her
grief
,
relates
his
own
actions
in
an
ex
edi
tion
which
he
undertook
,
at
Fingal's
com
mand
,
to
aid
Crothar
the
petty
king
of
Croma
,
a
country
in
Ireland
,
against
Roth
mar
who
invaded
his
dominions
.
The
story
is
delivered
down
thus
in
tradition
.
Crothar
king
of
Croma
being
blind
with
age
,
and
his
son
too
young
for
the
field
,
Rothmar
the
chief
of
Tromlo
resolved
to
avail
himself
of
the
opportunity
offered
of
annexing
the
dominions
of
Crothar
to
his
own
.
He
accordingly
marched
into
the
country
subject
to
Crothar
,
but
which
he
held
of
Arth
or
Artho
,
who
was
,
at
the
time
,
supreme
king
of
Ireland
.
Crothar
being
,
on
account
of
his
age
and
blindness
,
unfit
for
action
,
sent
for
aid
to
Fingal
king
of
Scotland
;
who
ordered
his
son
Ossian
to
the
relief
of
Crothar
.
But
before
his
arrival
Fovar-gormo
,
the
son
of
Crothar
,
attacking
Roth
mar
,
was
slain
himself
,
and
his
forces
to
tally
defeated
.
Ossian
renewed
the
war
;
came
to
battle
,
killed
Rothmar
,
and
rout
ed
his
army
.
Croma
being
thus
delivered
of
its
enemies
,
Ossian
returned
to
Scot
land
.
.
IT
was
the
voice
of
my
love
!
few
are
his
visits
to
the
dreams
of
Malvina
!
Open
your
airy
halls
,
ye
fathers
of
mighty
Toscar
.
Unfold
the
gates
of
your
clouds
;
the
steps
of
Malvina's
departure
are
near
.
I
have
heard
a
voice
in
my
dream
.
I
feel
the
fluttering
of
my
soul
.
Why
didst
thou
come
,
O
blast
,
from
the
dark-rolling
of
the
lake
?
Thy
rustling
wing
was
in
the
trees
,
the
dream
of
Mal
vina
departed
.
But
she
beheld
her
love
,
when
his
robe
of
mist
flew
on
the
wind
;
the
beam
of
the
sun
was
on
his
skirts
,
they
glit
tered
like
the
gold
of
the
stranger
.
It
was
the
voice
of
my
love
!
few
are
his
visits
to
my
dreams
!
BUT
thou
dwellest
in
the
soul
of
Malvina
,
son
of
mighty
Ossian
.
My
sighs
arise
with
the
beam
of
the
east
;
my
tears
descend
with
the
drops
of
night
.
I
was
a
lovely
tree
,
in
thy
presence
,
Oscar
,
with
all
my
branches
round
me
;
but
thy
death
came
like
a
blast
from
the
desart
,
and
laid
my
green
head
low
;
the
spring
returned
with
its
showers
,
but
no
leaf
of
mine
arose
.
The
virgins
saw
me
silent
in
the
hall
,
and
they
touched
the
harp
of
joy
.
The
tear
was
on
the
cheek
of
Malvina
:
the
virgins
beheld
me
in
my
grief
.
Why
art
thou
sad
,
they
said
;
thou
first
of
the
maids
of
Lutha
?
Was
he
lovely
as
the
beam
of
the
morning
,
and
stately
in
thy
sight
?
PLEASANT
is
thy
song
in
Ossian's
ear
,
daughter
of
streamy
Lu
tha
!
Thou
hast
heard
the
music
of
departed
bards
in
the
dream
of
thy
rest
,
when
sleep
fell
on
thine
eyes
,
at
the
murmur
of
Moruth
Mor'-ruth
,
great
stream
.
.
When
thou
didst
return
from
the
chace
,
in
the
day
of
the
sun
,
thou
hast
heard
the
music
of
the
bards
,
and
thy
song
is
lovely
.
It
is
lovely
,
O
Malvina
,
but
it
melts
the
soul
.
There
is
a
joy
in
grief
when
peace
dwells
in
the
breast
of
the
sad
.
But
sorrow
wastes
the
mournful
,
O
daughter
of
Toscar
,
and
their
days
are
few
.
They
fall
away
,
like
the
flower
on
which
the
sun
looks
in
his
strength
after
the
mildew
has
passed
over
it
,
and
its
head
is
heavy
with
the
drops
of
night
.
Attend
to
the
tale
of
Ossian
,
O
maid
;
he
remem
bers
the
days
of
his
youth
.
THE
king
commanded
;
I
raised
my
sails
,
and
rushed
into
the
bay
of
Croma
;
into
Croma's
sounding
bay
in
lovely
Inisfail
Inisfail
,
one
of
the
ancient
names
of
Ireland
.
.
High
on
the
coast
arose
the
towers
of
Crothar
king
of
spears
;
Crothar
renowned
in
the
battles
of
his
youth
;
but
age
dwelt
then
around
the
chief
.
Rothmar
raised
the
sword
against
the
hero
;
and
the
wrath
of
Fingal
burned
.
He
sent
Ossian
to
meet
Rothmar
in
battle
,
for
the
chief
of
Croma
was
the
companion
of
his
youth
.
I
SENT
the
bard
before
me
with
songs
;
I
came
into
the
hall
of
Crothar
.
There
sat
the
hero
amidst
the
arms
of
his
fathers
,
but
his
eyes
had
failed
.
His
gray
locks
waved
around
a
staff
,
on
which
the
warrior
leaned
.
He
hummed
the
song
of
other
times
,
when
the
sound
of
our
arms
reached
his
ears
.
Crothar
rose
,
stretched
his
aged
hand
and
blessed
the
son
of
Fingal
.
OSSIAN
!
said
the
hero
,
the
strength
of
Crothar's
arm
has
failed
.
O
could
I
list
the
sword
,
as
on
the
day
that
Fingal
fought
at
Stru
tha
!
He
was
the
first
of
mortal
men
;
but
Crothar
had
also
his
fame
.
The
king
of
Morven
praised
me
,
and
he
placed
on
my
arm
the
bossy
shield
of
Calthar
,
whom
the
hero
had
slain
in
war
.
Dost
thou
not
behold
it
on
the
wall
,
for
Crothar's
eyes
have
failed
?
Is
thy
strength
,
like
thy
fathers
,
Ossian
?
let
the
aged
feel
thine
arm
.
I
GAVE
my
arm
to
the
king
;
he
seels
it
with
his
aged
hands
.
The
sigh
rose
in
his
breast
,
and
his
tears
descended
.
Thou
art
strong
,
my
son
,
he
said
,
but
not
like
the
king
of
Morven
.
But
who
is
like
the
hero
among
the
mighty
in
war
!
Let
the
feast
of
my
halls
be
spread
;
and
let
my
bards
raise
the
song
.
Great
is
he
that
is
within
my
walls
,
sons
of
ecchoing
Croma
!
THE
feast
is
spread
.
The
harp
is
heard
;
and
joy
is
in
the
hall
.
But
it
was
joy
covering
a
sigh
,
that
darkly
dwelt
in
every
breast
.
It
was
like
the
faint
beam
of
the
moon
spread
on
a
cloud
in
heaven
.
At
length
the
music
ceased
,
and
the
aged
king
of
Croma
spoke
;
he
spoke
without
a
tear
,
but
the
sigh
swelled
in
the
midst
of
his
voice
.
SON
of
Fingal
!
dost
thou
not
behold
the
darkness
of
Crothar's
hall
of
shells
?
My
soul
was
not
dark
at
the
feast
,
when
my
people
lived
.
I
rejoiced
in
the
presence
of
strangers
,
when
my
son
shone
in
the
hall
.
But
,
Ossian
,
he
is
a
beam
that
is
departed
,
and
left
no
streak
of
light
behind
.
He
is
fallen
,
son
of
Fingal
,
in
the
battles
of
his
father
.
—
Rothmar
the
chief
of
grassy
Tromlo
heard
that
my
eyes
had
sailed
;
he
heard
that
my
arms
were
fixed
in
the
hall
,
and
the
pride
of
his
soul
arose
.
He
came
towards
Croma
;
my
people
fell
before
him
.
I
took
my
arms
in
the
hall
,
but
what
could
sight
less
Crothar
do
?
My
steps
were
unequal
;
my
grief
was
great
.
I
wished
for
the
days
that
were
past
.
Days
!
wherein
I
fought
;
and
won
in
the
field
of
blood
.
My
son
returned
from
the
chace
;
the
fair-haired
Fovar-gormo
Faobhar-gorm
,
the
blue
point
of
steel
.
.
He
had
not
lifted
his
sword
in
battle
,
for
his
arm
was
young
.
But
the
soul
of
the
youth
was
great
;
the
fire
of
valour
burnt
in
his
eyes
.
He
saw
the
disordered
steps
of
his
father
,
and
his
sigh
arose
.
King
of
Croma
,
he
said
,
is
it
because
thou
hast
no
son
;
is
it
for
the
weakness
of
Fovar-gormo's
arm
that
thy
sighs
arise
?
I
begin
,
my
father
,
to
feel
the
strength
of
my
arm
;
I
have
drawn
the
sword
of
my
youth
;
and
I
have
bent
the
bow
.
Let
me
meet
this
Rothmar
,
with
the
youths
of
Croma
:
let
me
meet
him
,
O
my
father
;
for
I
feel
my
burning
soul
.
AND
thou
shalt
meet
him
,
I
said
,
son
of
the
sightless
Crothar
!
But
let
others
advance
before
thee
,
that
I
may
hear
the
tread
of
thy
feet
at
thy
return
;
for
my
eyes
behold
thee
not
,
fair-haired
Fovar-gormo
!
—
He
went
,
he
met
the
foe
;
he
fell
.
The
foe
advances
towards
Croma
.
He
who
slew
my
son
is
near
,
with
all
his
pointed
spears
.
IT
is
not
time
to
fill
the
shell
,
I
replied
,
and
took
my
spear
.
My
people
saw
the
fire
of
my
eyes
,
and
they
rose
around
.
All
night
we
strode
along
the
heath
.
Gray
morning
rose
in
the
east
.
A
green
narrow
vale
appeared
before
us
;
nor
did
it
want
its
blue
stream
.
The
dark
host
of
Rothmar
are
on
its
banks
,
with
all
their
glittering
arms
.
We
fought
along
the
vale
;
they
fled
;
Rothmar
sunk
be
neath
my
sword
.
Day
had
not
descended
in
the
west
when
I
brought
his
arms
to
Crothar
.
The
aged
hero
felt
them
with
his
hands
;
and
joy
brightened
in
his
soul
.
THE
people
gather
to
the
hall
;
the
shells
of
the
feast
are
heard
.
Ten
harps
are
strung
;
five
bards
advance
,
and
sing
,
by
turns
,
Those
extempore
compositions
were
in
great
repute
among
succeeding
bards
.
The
pieces
extant
of
that
kind
shew
more
of
the
good
ear
,
than
of
the
poetical
genius
of
their
authors
.
The
translator
has
only
met
with
one
poem
of
this
sort
,
which
he
thinks
worthy
of
being
preserved
.
It
is
a
thousand
years
later
than
Ossian
,
but
the
authors
seem
to
have
observed
his
manner
,
and
adopted
some
of
his
expressions
.
The
story
of
it
is
this
.
Five
bards
,
passing
the
night
in
the
house
of
a
chief
,
who
was
a
poet
himself
,
went
severally
to
make
their
observations
on
,
and
returned
with
an
extempore
description
of
,
night
.
The
night
happened
to
be
one
in
October
,
as
appears
from
the
poem
,
and
in
the
north
of
Scotland
,
it
has
all
that
variety
which
the
bards
ascribe
to
it
,
in
their
descriptions
.
FIRST
BARD
.
NIGHT
is
dull
and
dark
.
The
clouds
rest
on
the
hills
.
No
star
with
green
trembling
beam
;
no
moon
looks
from
the
sky
.
I
hear
the
blast
in
the
wood
;
but
I
hear
it
distant
far
.
The
stream
of
the
valley
murmurs
;
but
its
murmur
is
fullen
and
sad
.
From
the
tree
at
the
grave
of
the
dead
the
long-howling
owl
is
heard
.
I
see
a
dim
form
on
the
plain
!
—
It
is
a
ghost
!
—
it
fades
—
it
flies
.
Some
funeral
shall
pass
this
way
:
the
meteor
marks
the
path
.
The
distant
dog
is
howling
from
the
hut
of
the
hill
.
The
stag
lies
on
the
mountain
moss
:
the
hind
is
at
his
side
.
She
hears
the
wind
in
his
branchy
horns
.
She
starts
,
but
lies
again
.
The
roe
is
in
the
cleft
of
the
rock
;
the
heath-cock's
head
is
beneath
his
wing
.
No
beast
,
no
bird
is
abroad
,
but
the
owl
and
the
howling
fox
.
She
on
a
leafless
tree
:
he
in
a
cloud
on
the
hill
.
Dark
,
panting
,
trembling
,
sad
the
tra
veller
has
lost
his
way
.
Through
shrubs
,
through
thorns
,
he
goes
,
along
the
gur
gling
rill
.
He
fears
the
rock
and
the
fen
.
He
fears
the
ghost
of
night
.
The
old
tree
groans
to
the
blast
;
the
falling
branch
re
sounds
.
The
wind
drives
the
withered
burs
,
clung
together
,
along
the
grass
.
It
is
the
light
tread
of
a
ghost
!
—
He
trembles
amidst
the
night
.
Dark
,
dusky
,
howling
is
night
,
cloudy
,
windy
,
and
full
of
ghosts
!
The
dead
are
abroad
!
my
friends
,
receive
me
from
the
night
.
SECOND
BARD
.
The
wind
is
up
.
The
shower
descends
.
The
spirit
of
the
mountain
shrieks
.
Woods
fall
from
high
.
Windows
flap
.
The
grow
ing
river
roars
.
The
traveller
attempts
the
ford
.
Hark
that
shriek
!
he
dies
:
—
The
storm
drives
the
horse
from
the
hill
,
the
goat
,
the
lowing
cow
.
They
tremble
as
drives
the
shower
,
beside
the
moulder
ing
bank
.
The
hunter
starts
from
sleep
,
in
his
lonely
hut
;
he
wakes
the
fire
decayed
.
His
wet
dogs
smoke
around
him
.
He
fills
the
chinks
with
heath
.
Loud
roar
two
moun
tain
streams
which
meet
beside
his
booth
.
Sad
on
the
side
of
a
hill
the
wandering
shepherd
sits
.
The
tree
resounds
above
him
.
The
stream
roars
down
the
rock
.
He
waits
for
the
rising
moon
to
guide
him
to
his
home
.
Ghosts
ride
on
the
storm
to-night
.
Sweet
is
their
voice
between
the
squalls
of
wind
.
Their
songs
are
of
other
worlds
.
The
rain
is
past
.
The
dry
wind
blows
.
Streams
roar
,
and
windows
flap
.
Cold
drops
fall
from
the
roof
.
I
see
the
starry
sky
.
But
the
shower
gathers
again
.
The
west
is
gloomy
and
dark
.
Night
is
stormy
and
dismal
;
receive
me
,
my
friends
,
from
night
.
THIRD
BARD
.
The
wind
still
sounds
between
the
hills
:
and
whistles
through
the
grass
of
the
rock
.
The
firs
fall
from
their
place
.
The
turfy
hut
is
torn
.
The
clouds
,
divided
,
fly
over
the
sky
,
and
shew
the
burning
stars
.
The
meteor
,
token
of
death
!
flies
sparkling
through
the
gloom
.
It
rests
on
the
hill
.
I
see
the
withered
fern
,
the
dark
browed
rock
,
the
fallen
oak
.
Who
is
that
in
his
shrowd
beneath
the
tree
,
by
the
stream
?
The
waves
dark-tumble
on
the
lake
,
and
lash
its
rocky
sides
.
The
boat
is
brim
full
in
the
cove
;
the
oars
on
the
rocking
tide
.
A
maid
sits
sad
beside
the
rock
,
and
eyes
the
rolling
stream
.
Her
lover
pro
mised
to
come
.
She
saw
his
boat
,
when
yet
it
was
light
,
on
the
lake
.
Is
this
his
broken
boat
on
the
shore
?
Are
these
his
groans
on
the
wind
?
Hark
!
the
hail
rattles
around
.
The
flaky
snow
descends
.
The
tops
of
the
hills
are
white
.
The
stormy
winds
abate
.
Va
rious
is
the
night
and
cold
;
receive
me
,
my
friends
,
from
night
.
FOURTH
BARD
.
Night
is
calm
and
fair
;
blue
,
starry
,
settled
is
night
.
The
winds
,
with
the
clouds
,
are
gone
.
They
sink
behind
the
hill
.
The
moon
is
up
on
the
mountain
.
Trees
glister
:
streams
shine
on
the
rock
.
Bright
rolls
the
settled
lake
;
bright
the
stream
of
the
vale
.
I
see
the
trees
overturned
;
the
shocks
of
corn
on
the
plain
.
The
wakeful
hind
rebuilds
the
shocks
,
and
whistles
on
the
distant
field
.
Calm
,
settled
,
fair
is
night
!
—
Who
comes
from
the
place
of
the
dead
?
That
form
with
the
robe
of
snow
;
white
arms
and
dark-brown
hair
!
It
is
the
daughter
of
the
chief
of
the
people
;
she
that
lately
fell
!
Come
,
let
us
view
thee
,
O
maid
!
thou
that
hast
been
the
delight
of
heroes
!
The
blast
drives
the
phantom
away
;
white
,
without
form
,
it
ascends
the
hill
.
The
breezes
drive
the
blue
mist
,
slowly
over
the
narrow
vale
.
It
rises
on
the
hill
,
and
joins
its
head
to
heaven
.
—
Night
is
settled
,
calm
,
blue
,
starry
,
bright
with
the
moon
.
Receive
me
not
,
my
friends
,
for
lovely
is
the
night
.
FIFTH
BARD
.
Night
is
calm
,
but
dreary
.
The
moon
is
in
a
cloud
in
the
west
.
Slow
moves
that
pale
beam
along
the
shaded
hill
.
The
di
stant
wave
is
heard
.
The
torrent
murmurs
on
the
rock
.
The
cock
is
heard
from
the
booth
.
More
than
half
the
night
is
past
.
The
house-wise
,
groping
in
the
gloom
,
re
kindles
the
settled
fire
.
The
hunter
thinks
that
day
approaches
,
and
calls
his
bound
ing
dogs
.
He
ascends
the
hill
and
whistles
on
his
way
.
A
blast
removes
the
cloud
.
He
sees
the
starry
plough
of
the
north
.
Much
of
the
night
is
to
pass
.
He
nods
by
the
mossy
rock
.
Hark
!
the
whirlwind
is
in
the
wood
!
A
low
murmur
in
the
vale
!
It
is
the
mighty
army
of
the
dead
returning
from
the
air
.
The
moon
rests
behind
the
hill
.
The
beam
is
still
on
that
lofty
rock
.
Long
are
the
shadows
of
the
trees
.
Now
it
is
dark
over
all
.
Night
is
dreary
,
silent
,
and
dark
;
receive
me
,
my
friends
,
from
night
.
THE
CHIEF
.
Let
clouds
rest
on
the
hills
:
spirits
fly
and
travellers
fear
.
Let
the
winds
of
the
woods
arise
,
the
sounding
storms
descend
.
Roar
streams
and
windows
flap
,
and
green
winged
meteors
fly
;
rise
the
pale
moon
from
behind
her
hills
,
or
inclose
her
head
in
clouds
;
night
is
alike
to
me
,
blue
,
stor
my
,
or
gloomy
the
sky
.
Night
flies
before
the
beam
,
when
it
is
poured
on
the
hill
.
The
young
day
returns
from
his
clouds
but
we
return
no
more
.
Where
are
our
chiefs
of
old
?
Where
our
kings
of
mighty
name
?
The
fields
of
their
battles
are
silent
.
Scarce
their
mossy
tombs
remain
.
We
shall
also
be
forgot
.
This
lofty
house
shall
fall
.
Our
sons
shall
not
behold
the
ruins
in
grass
.
They
shall
ask
of
the
aged
,
"
Where
stood
the
walls
of
our
fathers
?
"
Raise
the
song
,
and
strike
the
harp
;
send
round
the
shells
of
joy
.
Suspend
a
hundred
tapers
on
high
.
Youths
and
maids
begin
the
dance
.
Let
some
gray
bard
be
near
me
to
tell
the
deeds
of
other
times
;
of
kings
renowned
in
our
land
,
of
chiefs
we
behold
no
more
.
Thus
let
the
night
pass
until
morning
shall
appear
in
our
halls
.
Then
let
the
bow
be
at
hand
,
the
dogs
,
the
youths
of
the
chace
.
We
shall
ascend
the
hill
with
day
;
and
awake
the
deer
.
,
the
praise
of
Ossian
;
they
poured
forth
their
burning
souls
,
and
the
harp
answered
to
their
voice
.
The
joy
of
Croma
was
great
:
for
peace
returned
to
the
land
.
The
night
came
on
with
silence
,
and
the
morning
returned
with
joy
.
No
foe
came
in
darkness
,
with
his
glittering
spear
.
The
joy
of
Croma
was
great
;
for
the
gloomy
Rothmar
fell
.
I
RAISED
my
voice
for
Fovar-gormo
,
when
they
laid
the
chief
in
earth
.
The
aged
Crothar
was
there
,
but
his
sigh
was
not
heard
.
He
searched
for
the
wound
of
his
son
,
and
found
it
in
his
breast
.
Joy
rose
in
the
face
of
the
aged
.
He
came
and
spoke
to
Ossian
.
KING
of
spears
!
he
said
,
my
son
has
not
fallen
without
his
fame
.
The
young
warrior
did
not
fly
;
but
met
death
,
as
he
went
forward
in
his
strength
.
Happy
are
they
who
die
in
youth
,
when
their
re
nown
is
heard
!
The
feeble
will
not
behold
them
in
the
hall
;
or
smile
at
their
trembling
hands
.
Their
memory
shall
be
honour
ed
in
the
song
;
the
young
tear
of
the
virgin
falls
.
But
the
aged
wither
away
,
by
degrees
,
and
the
fame
of
their
youth
begins
to
be
forgot
.
They
fall
in
secret
;
the
sigh
of
their
son
is
not
heard
.
Joy
is
around
their
tomb
;
and
the
stone
of
their
fame
is
placed
with
out
a
tear
.
Happy
are
they
who
die
in
youth
,
when
their
renown
is
around
them
!