The poems of Ossian, in the orig. Gaelic, with a tr. into Lat. by R. Macfarlan. With a dissertation on the authenticity of the poems, by sir J. Sinclair, and a tr. of the abbé Cesarotti's dissertation on the controversy respecting Ossian, with notes and a suppl. essay by J. McArthur, Volume 1
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Page cxciv - Helmets are cleft on high. Blood bursts and smokes around. Strings murmur on the polished yews. Darts rush along the sky, spears fall like the circles of light which gild the face of night.
Page iv - ... long to be remembered, and the language formerly had nothing written. He has doubtless inserted names that circulate in popular stories, and may have translated some wandering ballads, if any can be found; and the names and some of the images being recollected, make an inaccurate auditor imagine, by the help of Caledonian bigotry, that he has formerly heard the whole.
Page cxci - WHEN Learning's triumph o'er her barb'rous foes First rear'd the stage, immortal Shakspeare rose ; Each change of many-colour'd life he drew, Exhausted worlds, and then imagin'd new: Existence saw him spurn her bounded reign, And panting Time toil'd after him in vain.
Page iii - The editor, or author, never could show the original ; nor can it be shown by any other; to revenge reasonable incredulity, by refusing evidence, is a degree of insolence, with which the world is not yet acquainted ; and stubborn audacity is the last refuge of guilt.
Page cxxvi - Thin thongs, bright-studded with gems, bend on the stately necks of the steeds. The steeds that like wreaths of mist fly over the streamy vales ! The wildness of deer is in their course, the strength of eagles descending on the prey. Their noise is like the blast of winter, on the sides of the snow-headed Gormal.
Page cxxx - Blood bursts and smokes around. Strings murmur on the polished yews. Darts rush along the sky. Spears fall like the circles of light, which gild the face of night. As the noise of the troubled ocean, when roll the waves on high. As the last peal of thunder in heaven, such is the din of war...
Page c - I beheld their chief," says Moran, " tall as a glittering rock. His spear is a blasted pine; his shield the rising moon. He sat on the shore! like a cloud of mist on the silent hill! Many, chief of heroes! I said, many are our hands of war. Well art thou named the Mighty Man, but many mighty men are seen from Tura's windy walls.
Page clix - Duchomar was the dream of her night! She will raise my tomb; the hunter shall raise my fame. But draw the sword from my breast. Morna, the steel is cold ! ' She came, in all her tears she came; she drew the sword from his breast. He pierced her white side! He spread her fair locks on the ground! Her bursting blood sounds from her side; her white arm is stained with red. Rolling in death she lay. The cave re-echoed to her sighs.
Page cxx - Mine arm like the thunder of heaven ! " But be thou on a moon-beam, O Morna ! " Near the window of my rest ; " When my thoughts are of peace ; " When the din of arms is past.
Page cxxxii - Weep on the rocks of roaring winds, O maid of Inistore! Bend thy fair head over the waves, thou lovelier than the ghost of the hills; when it moves, in a sunbeam, at noon, over the silence of Morven! He is fallen! thy youth is low! pale beneath the sword of Cuthullin!