Arrived at the cave, my father announced to my lover that he must prepare to accompany him to battle! Aghast he stood, silent as the midnight hour, unmoved as the statue of despair! The venerable Chief reproached him for his coldness.
'Alas! said he, the din of arms is no more offensive to my ear than the murmuring of falling waters, the vernal breeze sighing through the leaves, or the melodious song of the evening nightingale; but if we should fall in battle, what will become of this lovely maid?'
My father, swearing by the great Loda, promised I should be his—if we conquered—but reminded him, that
'Love should be the zephyr, not the whirlwind of the soul!'
Tonthormid was all rapture, while every line in my countenance, witnessed my satisfaction. We were restored to that unexpected tranquility of spirits, which naturally follows a great dejection in most minds, when the first pangs are somewhat abated—not unlike that stillness in the sky which is sometimes observed when two opposite and gentle winds have just overcome one another's motion—or like the tide at the moment of high water, before it has received the contrary direction.
They set out, receiving my caresses, intermixed with smiles and tears, like an April sun shining through transient showers. They met the foe, conquered, and returned.
The feast of shells was prepared, the maids of mirth attended with their harps, and the rising sun would have beheld me Tonthormid's! The virgins envied me in the hall, my steps were strewed with flowers, and I was happiest, where a thousand are happy. The subtile air was calm from mists, and water with her curled waves swept the bounded channels of the deep; the nightingales were heard in the grove, and soothed my soul with tender tales of love; not a breeze breathed through the trees; all nature was still, as if it paid homage to our passion. But oh! my summer's day was soon turned into winter's night! Ah, soul ambition! which like water-floods, not channel bound, dost neighbours overrun!—fell violence leaped forth like thunder wrapped in a ball of fire! Thou camest with thy men of steel; I beheld thee from the clefts of the rock; terrors turned upon me, like an earthquake they shook my trembling heart! they still pursue my soul as the wind. My joy is withered; my welfare has passed away like a cloud; my comforts have been like winter suns, that rise late and set betimes, set with thick clouds, that hide their light at noon!'
Thus sang the maid in her grief, like the Lus-cromicina, bending in pensive silence, a beautiful flower drooping in the shade, wanting the beams of the sun to revive it. She soon perceived my heart was not made of brass, or carved from the stony rock. Hope animated her weakened spirits, whilst the dignity of her soul irradiated every feature; the blush of modesty stole over the cheek, and the graces dwelt on her coral lips. Sweet as the dew from heaven her lovely accents fell, and moved me. She proceeded, 'I see my tears have mollified thy heart! If fame tells true, never over the fallen did thine eyes rejoice, and thou knowest the herbs on the hill![62] Restore me then to the hero that is low; my tears will refresh him, as the dew of the morning doth the green herbage!—He mocked at fear; never retired from the foe, or was ever vanquished, but by the son of Fingal! Glorious is it to thee, O hero! great will be thy renown; thou hast subdued the first of men!
Were the earth his bed, a rock his pillow, his curtain heaven, with him alone could I be blessed! From a rock that weeps a running crystal, I will fill his shell cup. I'll gently raise his weakened body[63], and the murmur of this water, instead of music, shall charm him into sleep; and whilst he sleeps my cares shall watch to preserve him from the beast of prey! The fern on the heath, if cut a thousand times, represents the same figure—so is the image of my love engraved on the inmost core of my heart! I hold the thread of his peace: can I forget its delicate texture, or that it is warped with those of his heart? I could grow to my hero like ivy; but like the aspenleaf I tremble, like the sensitive plant I shrink back at thy approach! Thou mayest swim against the stream with a crab, feed against the wind with the deer, but thou canst never possess my heart! Love for him, or grief, are the only passions that can fill the heart of Oinamoral! But thou mayest go forth in echoing steel and increase thy glory—or the hearts of a thousand other virgins, will beat an unison to thy sighs, and return thy passion!'