The general similarity of the fairies as depicted in this legend to those of Germany as illustrated in Goethe's Erl King, is obvious, and seems to argue either historical kin or identity of origin. In Goethe's ballad a corpse is left in the arms of the father. The version subjoined is an anonymous newspaper version, but is so far superior to that of Mrs. Austin, that we quote it in preference:
"Who rideth so late through the night wind lone?
Yet is a father with his son.
"He foldeth him fast; he foldeth him warm;
He prayeth the angels to keep from him harm.
"' My son, why hidest thy face so shy?'
"' Seest thou not, father, the Erl King nigh?
"'The Erlen King with his train, I wist?'
"'My son, it is only the fog and mist.'
"'Come, beautiful one, come away with me,
And merry plays will I play with thee!
"'Ah! gay are the blossoms that blow by the shore,
And my mother hath many a plaything in store.'
"'My father, my father, and dost thou not hear
What the Erlen King doth say in my ear?'
"'Be still my darling, be still, my son,
Through the withered leaves the winds howl lone.'
"'Come, beautiful one, come away with me,
My daughters are fair, they shall wait on thee!
"'My daughters their nightly revellings keep,
They shall sing, they shall dance, they shall rock thee to sleep.'
"' My father, my father, and seest thou not
The Erl King's daughters in yon wild spot?'
"'My son, my son, I see, I wist,
It is the gray willow down there in the mist.'
"'I woo thee; thy beauty delighteth my sense.
And, willing or not, shall I carry thee hence.'
"'O father, the Erl King now puts forth his arm!
O father, the Erl King, he doeth me harm!'
"The father rideth, he rideth fast
And faster rideth through the blast.
"He spurreth wild, through the night wind lone,
And dead, in his arms, he holdeth his son."
Of this topic—the folks-lore of the Irish peasantry—we shall here take leave, merely hazarding the opinion that there is some remote historical connection between the Irish traditions of the idiosyncrasies and doings of elves and those of the Germanic races—a connection probably dating from the Danish occupation of the country about the seventh or eighth century. In the Irish poetic annals, which antedate the Danish occupation by several hundred years, no traces of elfin traditions can be detected; and the same is true of the Ossianic ballads which McPherson has rather imperfectly collated, and between which and the several Celtic manuscripts there is a singular resemblance.
The collation of McPherson, valuable in many respects, is amenable to almost fatal criticism, in that the sublimity of the Gaëlic composition is marred by being twisted from the parallelism (which, in the original, is analogous to the Hebraic) into the form of prose: the parallelism being in English—as in Gaëlic, Celtic, and Hebrew—the most effective form into which sublimity can be wrought. And to demonstrate the truth of this proposition we need only to put portions of McPherson's prose version into the parallelistic form, and shall adopt for this purpose Fingal's interview with the spirit of Loda, than which, uniquely considered, a poem of more overwhelming sublimity was never written or conceived. Subjoined is McPherson's version:
"A blast came from the mountain: on its wings was the spirit of Loda. He came to his place in his terrors, and shook his dusky spear. His eyes appear like flames in his dark face: his voice is like distant thunder. Fingal advanced his spear in night, and raise his voice on high. 'Son of night retire: call thy winds, and fly! Why dost thou come to my presence with thy shadowy arms? Shall I fear thy gloomy form, spirit of dismal Loda? Weak is thy shield of clouds; feeble is that meteor thy sword! The blast rolls them together; and thou thyself art lost. Fly from my presence, son of night! call thy winds and fly!'
"'Dost thou force me from my place?' replied the hollow voice. 'I turn the battle in the field of the brave. I look on the nations, and they vanish: my nostrils pour the blast of death. I come abroad on the winds; the tempests are before my face. But my dwelling is calm above the clouds; pleasant are the fields of my rest.'
"'Dwell in thy pleasant fields,' says the king. 'Let Comhal's son be forgotten. Have my steps ascended from my hills into thy peaceful plains? Have I met thee with a spear on thy cloud, spirit of dismal Loda? Why then dost thou frown on me? Why shake thine airy sphere? Thou frownest in vain: I never fled from the mighty in war; and shall the sons of the wind frighten the king of Morven? No—he knows the weakness of their arms.'
"'Fly to thy land,' replied the form; 'take to the wind, and fly! The blasts are in the hollow of my hand: the course of the storm is mine. Fly to thy land, son of Comhal, or feel my flaming wrath!'
"He lifted high his shadowy spear! he bent forward his dreadful height. Fingal, advancing, drew his sword, the blade of dark-brown Luno. The gleaming path of the steel winds through the gloomy ghost. The form fell shapeless into air."
Now, let us put this in the form of the parallelism—a form into which the sententious sublimity of the composition naturally falls, and in which nearly all these ancient Gaëlic and Celtic epics occur in the original:
"A blast came from the mountain:
On its wings was the spirit of Loda.
He came to his place in terrors,
And shook his dusky spear.
His eyes appear like flame in his dusky face:
His voice is like distant thunder.
Fingal advanced his spear into the night,
And raised his voice on high.
Son of night, retire;
Call thy winds, and fly!
Why dost thou come to my presence with thy shadowy arms?
Shall I fear thy gloomy form, spirit of Loda?
Weak is thy shield of clouds;
Feeble is that meteor, thy sword.
The blast rolls them together:
And thou thyself art lost.
Fly from my presence, son of night!
Call thy winds, and fly!'
'Dost thou force me from my place?' replied the hollow voice.
'I turn the battle in the field of the brave,
I look on the nations and they vanish:
In my nostrils is the blast of death.
I came abroad on the winds:
The tempests are before my face,
But my dwelling is calm above the clouds;
Pleasant are my fields of rest.'
'Dwell in thy pleasant fields,' said the king.
'Let Comhal's son be forgotten.
Have my stops ascended from my hills into thy peaceful plains?
Have I met thee with a spear on thy cloud, spirit of the dismal Loda?
Why dost thou frown on me?
Why shake thy dusky spear?
Thou frownest in vain;
I never fled from the mighty in war;
And shall the sons of the wind frighten the king of Morven?
He knows the weakness of their arms.'
'Fly to thy land,' replied the shadow;
'Take to the wind, and fly!
The blasts are in the hollow of my hand
The course of the storm is mine.
Fly to thy land, son of Comhal,
Or feel my flaming wrath!'
He lifted high his shadowy spear:
He bent forward his dismal height
Fingal, advancing, drew his sword, the blade of the dark-brown Luno.
The gleaming path of steel winds through the gloomy ghost.
The form fell shapeless in air."
For vague sublimity, for weird, dismal, ghastly, and phantasmagoric grandeur of conception and effect, the imagery of the above episode of Ossian has never been exceeded in the vast domain of fantasy-weaving; and this effect is vastly heightened by the sententious step of the sentences and the shadowy cadence of the parallelism—a cadence which is the natural expression of sublimity, and to compass which in ordinary blank verse it is impossible. Compare, for instance, the following imagery of similar ensemble, from Milton's "Paradise Lost":