Chapter I

On steep Knockfarrel had the Fians made, For safe retreat, a high and strong stockade Around their dwellings. And when winter fell And o'er Strathpeffer laid its barren spell-- When days were bleak with storm, and nights were drear And dark and lonesome, well they loved to hear The songs of Ossian, peerless and sublime-- Their blind, grey bard, grown old before his time, Lamenting for his son--the young, the brave Oscar, who fell beside the western wave In Gavra's bloody and unequal fight.

Round Ossian would they gather in the night, Beseeching him for song ... And when he took His clarsach, from the magic strings he shook A maze of trembling music, falling sweet As mossy waters in the summer heat; And soft as fainting moor-winds when they leave The fume of myrtle, on a dewy eve, Bound flush'd and teeming tarns that all night hear Low elfin pipings in the woodlands near.

'Twas thus he sang of love, and in a dream The fair maids sighed to hear. But when his theme Was the long chase that Finn and all his men Followed with lightsome heart from glen to glen-- His song was free as morn, and clear and loud As skylarks carolling below a cloud In sweet June weather ... And they heard the fall Of mountain streams, the huntsman's windy call Across the heaving hills, the baying hound Among the rocks, while echoes answered round-- They heard, and shared the gladness of the chase.

He sang the glories of the Fian race, Whose fame is flashed through Alba far and wide-- Their valorous deeds he sang with joy and pride ... When their dark foemen from the west came o'er The ragged hills, and when on Croumba's shore The Viking hordes descending, fought and fled-- And when brave Conn, who would avenge the Red, By one-eyed Goll was slain. Of Finn he sang, And Dermaid, while the clash of conflict rang In billowy music through the heroes' hall-- And many a Fian gave the battle-call When Ossian sang.

Haggard and old, with slow And falt'ring steps, went Winter through the snow, As if its dreary round would ne'er be done-- The last long winter of their days--begun Ere yet the latest flush of falling leaves Had faded in the breath of chilling eves; Nor ended in the days of longer light, When dawn and eve encroached upon the night-- A weary time it was! The long Strath lay Snow-wreathed and pathless, and from day to day The tempests raved across the low'ring skies, And they grew weak and pale, with hollow eyes, The while their stores shrank low, waiting the dawn Of that sweet season when through woodlands wan Fresh flowers flutter and the wild birds sing-- For Winter on the forelock of the Spring Its icy fingers laid. The huntsmen pined In their dim dwellings, wearily confined, While the loud, hungry tempest held its sway-- The red-eyed wolves grew bold and came by day, And birds fell frozen in the snow.

Then through The trackless Strath a balmy south wind blew To usher lusty Spring. Lo! in a night The snows 'gan shrinking upon plain and height, And morning broke in brightness to the sound Of falling waters, while a peace profound Possessed the world around them, and the blue Bared heaven above ... Then all the Fians knew That Winter's spell was broken, and each one Made glad obeisance to the golden sun.

Three days around Knockfarrel they pursued The chase across the hills and through the wood, Round Ussie Loch and Dingwall's soundless shore; But meagre were the burdens that they bore At even to their dwellings. To the west "But sorrow not," said Finn, when all dismay'd They hastened on a drear and bootless quest-- With weary steps they turned to their stockade, "To-morrow will we hunt towards the east To high Dunskaith, and then make gladsome feast By night when we return."

Or ever morn Had broken, Finn arose, and on his horn Blew loud the huntsman's blast that round the ben Was echoed o'er and o'er ... Then all his men Gathered about him in the dusk, nor knew What dim forebodings filled his heart and drew His brows in furrowed care. His eyes a-gleam Still stared upon the horrors of a dream Of evil omen that in vain he sought To solve ... His voice came faint from battling thought, As he to Garry spake--"Be thou the ward Strong son of Morna: who, like thee, can guard Our women from all peril!" ... Garry turned From Finn in sullen silence, for he yearned To join the chase once more. In stature he Was least of all the tribe, but none could be More fierce in conflict, fighting in the van, Than that grim, wolfish, and misshapen man!

Then Finn to Caoilte spake, and gave command To hasten forth before the Fian band-- The King of Scouts was he! And like the deer He sped to find if foemen had come near-- Fierce, swarthy hillmen, waiting at the fords For combat eager, or red Viking hordes From out the Northern isles ... In Alba wide No runner could keep pace by Caoilte's side, And ere the Fians, following in his path, Had wended from the deep and dusky strath, He swept o'er Clyne, and heard the awesome owls That hoot afar and near in woody Foulis, And he had reached the slopes of fair Rosskeen Ere Finn by Fyrish came.

The dawn broke green-- For the high huntsman of the morn had flung His mantle o'er his back: stooping, he strung His silver bow; then rising, bright and bold, He shot a burning arrow of pure gold That rent the heart of Night.

As far behind The Fians followed, Caoilte, like the wind, Sped on--yon son of Ronan--o'er the wide And marshy moor, and 'thwart the mountain side,-- By Delny's shore far-ebbed, and wan, and brown, And through the woods of beautous Balnagown: The roaring streams he vaulted on his spear, And foaming torrents leapt, as he drew near The sandy slopes of Nigg. He climbed and ran Till high above Dunskaith he stood to scan The outer ocean for the Viking ships, Peering below his hand, with panting lips A-gape, but wide and empty lay the sea Beyond the barrier crags of Cromarty, To the far sky-line lying blue and bare-- For no red pirate sought as yet to dare The gloomy hazards of the fitful seas, The gusty terrors, and the treacheries Of fickle April and its changing skies-- And while he scanned the waves with curious eyes, The sea-wind in his nostrils, who had spent A long, bleak winter in Knockfarrel pent Over the snow-wreathed Strath and buried wood, A sense of freedom tingled in his blood-- The large life of the Ocean, heaving wide, His heart possessed with gladness and with pride, And he rejoiced to be alive.... Once more He heard the drenching waves on that rough shore Raking the shingles, and the sea-worn rocks Sucking the brine through bared and lapping locks Of bright, brown tangle; while the shelving ledges Poured back the swirling waters o'er their edges; And billows breaking on a precipice In spouts of spray, fell spreading like a fleece.

Sullen and sunken lay the reef, with sleek And foaming lips, before the flooded creek Deep-bunched with arrowy weed, its green expanse Wind-wrinkled and translucent ... A bright trance Of sun-flung splendour lay athwart the wide Blue ocean swept with loops of silvern tide Heavily heaving in a long, slow swell.

A lonely fisher in his coracle Came round a headland, lifted on a wave That bore him through the shallows to his cave, Nor other being he saw.

The birds that flew Clamorous about the cliffs, and diving drew Their prey from bounteous waters, on him cast Cold, beady eyes of wonder, wheeling past And sliding down the wind.