Lotte would have liked the maid to sit in the next room with whatever she might have to do, then decided against it. Werther was pacing up and down. Lotte went over to the piano and began to play a minuet, but she could not play fluently. She pulled herself together and tried to be casual as she sat down beside Werther, who had taken his usual seat on the sofa.
“Haven’t you brought anything to read?” she asked. He had not. “In my drawer over there is your translation of Ossian’s songs. I haven’t read them yet. I was always hoping to hear them from you, but there never seemed to be any time…we couldn’t seem to…”
He smiled, got up and fetched the songs. As he took them in his hands, he shivered, and as he looked at them, his eyes filled with tears. He sat down and read:8
“O star of night descendant! How fair is thy light in the west; how radiantly thy head rises above thy cloud, moving toward thy hill regally! What dost thou seek on the heath? The storm winds have subsided; from far off comes the murmur of the tumbling brook; surf plays on distant rock, and hum of evening insects swarms across the lea. O beautiful light, what dost thou seek? But thou dost only smile and leave, gaily encircled by riplets that lave thy lovely hair. Farewell, calm beam of light! Arise, O magnificent effulgence of Ossian’s soul!
“And it arises in all its glory. I see my departed friends assembled in Lora as in days of yore—Fingal, a moist column of mist, his heroes around him—here, there…see the bards! Gray Ullin, stately Ryno, Alpin—beloved singer—and thou, gentle-voiced Minona. How changed you are, my friends, since the festive days of Selma when, like spring zephyrs, we contended for our singing laurels, striving in turn to bend the weak, whispering reed!
“Minona, in all her beauty, stepped forward, eyes downcast and filled with tears, hair flowing heavy in the inconstant wind blowing from the hill. She raised her beloved voice, and the souls of the heroes were bleak, for they had oft seen Salgar’s grave and the dark abode of white Colma—Colma, abandoned on the hill, Colma with her melodious voice. Salgar promised to come, but all around her night was falling. Hear Colma’s voice, as she sits on the hill alone!
“COLMA: ‘Night has fallen. I am alone and lost on the storm-swept hill. The wind howls down the canyon; no hut protects me from the rain. I have been abandoned on this stormy hill.
“‘Emerge, O moon, from thy cloud; stars of the night appear! Grant me a ray of light to guide me to the place where my beloved rests from the ardors of the hunt, his bow unstrung, his dogs snuffling around him. But I must needs sit here on the rocky banks of the stream, alone. Stream and storm roar, and I cannot hear the voice of my beloved.
“‘Why does he hesitate, Salgar, my beloved? Has he forgot his promise? There is the rock, and there is the tree, and here is the rushing stream. Oh, where has my Salgar lost his way?
“‘Thou didst promise to be here at nightfall. With thee I would flee, forsake father and brother—those two proud men! Our tribes have been enemies for so long, but thou and I, Salgar, we are not enemies.
“‘Be silent a while, O wind; be silent for one small while, O stream, so that my voice may resound in the valley and my wanderer hear me. Salgar, it is I calling. Here is the tree and the rock, and I am here, Salgar, my beloved. Why dost thou tarry?
“‘See…the moon appears, the river gleams in the valley, the rocks stand gray on the hillside—but I do not see him nor do his dogs herald his coming. Here must I sit alone.
“‘But who lies down there on the heath? My beloved? My brother? Speak to me, O my friends! They do not reply, and my soul is fearful. Ah me—they are slain; their swords are red with blood. O my brother, my brother, why hast thou slain my beloved? O Salgar, my beloved, why hast thou slain my brother? I loved you both. Among a thousand on the hill, you were beautiful, and in combat, you were terrible. Answer me! Hear me, my beloveds! Alas…they are mute, forever silenced, their breasts cold as the earth.
“‘Oh, speak, ye dead, from the rocks on the hill, from the top of the storm-swept mountain. Speak! I shall not shudder. Where did you go to your final rest? In which cave of the hill shall I find you? I hear no weak voice in the wind; no answer is wafted to me by the storm on the hill.
“‘I sit in my misery, bathed in my tears, and wait doggedly for the morn. Dig the grave of the dead, my friends, but do not cover it until I am come. Like a dream, my life leaves me—how can I remain behind? Here, beside the stream in the echoing rocks, I shall dwell with my friends. When night falls on the hill, and the wind sweeps o’er the heath, let my spirit stand in the wind and mourn the death of my friend. The hunter in his covert hears me, hears my voice and loves it, for the voice that mourns my friends shall be sweet. I loved them both.’
“That was thy song, O Minona, Torman’s gently blushing daughter. Our tears flowed for Colma, and our souls were darkened.
“Ullin stepped forward with his harp and gave us Alpin’s song. Alpin’s voice was friendly, and Ryno’s soul was a fiery fount; but they have both been laid to rest already in the narrow confines of their house, and their voices have echoed away in Selma. Once, before the heroes had fallen, Ullin came back from the hunt and could hear their contest on the hill. Their song was gentle but sad. They were mourning the downfall of Morar, the first of the heroes. His soul was like Fingal’s, his sword like the sword of Oscar. But he fell, and his father mourned his death, and the eyes of his sister Minona were filled with tears—Minona, sister of Morar, the magnificent. She stepped back from Ullin’s song like the moon in the west that foresees the rain and hides its lovely head in a cloud. With Ullin I accompanied Ryno’s lament on my harp.
“RYNO: ‘Wind and rain have passed, the hour of noon is clear, and the clouds are parting. An inconstant sun shines fleetingly on the hill, and the mountain stream flows red in the valley. Sweet is thy murmuring, O stream, yet the voice that I hear is sweeter—Alpin’s voice, lamenting his dead. His head is bowed with age; red are his eyes from weeping. Alpin, glorious bard, where art thou, alone on the silenced hill? Why dost thou wail like the wind in the forest, like a wave on the far-off shores of the sea?’
“ALPIN: ‘My tears, Ryno, are for the dead, and my voice is for the grave-dwellers. Thou art lithe on the mount, and among the sons of the heath, thou art beautiful. But thou wilt be slain like Morar, and the mourner shall sit on thy tomb. The hills will forget thee; thy bow will lie unstrung in the great hall.
“‘Thou wert swift as the deer on the hill, Morar, and terrible as night fires in the sky. Thy anger was like a storm, like sheet lightning across the heath. Thy voice was a forest stream after rainfall, was thunder in far-off hills. Many fell beneath thy right arm, and the flame of thy fury consumed them, but when thou didst return from battle, how peaceful was thy brow! Thy countenance was like the moon on a silent night; thy breast was as calm as the waters of a lake after the blustering wind dies down.
“‘Narrow are the confines of thy house now; dark is thy abode. Three paces carry me across thy grave, thou who wert once so great—thy sole memorial now…four mossy stone markers. A leafless tree, tall grass that rustles in the wind, point out the grave of mighty Morar, the hunter—but no mother to mourn thee, no maiden with tears of love. Dead is she who gave thee birth; slain is the daughter of Morglan.
“‘Who stands yonder, leaning on his staff? Who is he? His hair is hoary with age; his eyes are reddened from crying. It is thy father, Morar. Thou wert his only son. He knows all about thy fame in battle, about the enemy thou didst scatter; he has heard of Morar’s fame—alas, not of his wound! Weep, father of Morar, weep! But thy son cannot hear thee. The sleep of the dead is deep, and lowly is their pillow of dust. He pays no heed to thy voice; he will ne’er awaken to thy call. Oh, when will it be morning in his grave; when will it be time to bid the slumberer awaken?
“‘Farewell, noblest of men, conqueror on the field
