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The Poems of Ossian, Tr. by J. MacPherson. to Which Are Prefixed ...
No preview available - 2015
aged appears arms arose Atha bards battle beam behold bend blast blood blue bright Cairbar called Carril Cathmor cave chief cloud comes Cormac course dark daughter death descended distant dost dwelling echoing Erin eyes face failed fall fallen fame father feast fell field Fillan Fingal fire forward friends Gaul ghosts green grey hair hall hand harp head hear heard heath heroes hill host Ireland king land lift light locks looked maid marked midst mighty mist moon Morni morning Morven mournful night Oscar Ossian pass poem race raised renown rest rise roar rock rolled rose round rushed shield side sigh silent song sons soul sound spear spirit spread steel steps stood storm strangers stream strength sword tears thee thou tomb tree turned voice warriors waves winds wing young youth
Page 14 - When the world is dark with tempests, when thunder rolls and lightning flies, thou lookest in thy beauty from the clouds and laughest at the storm. But to Ossian thou lookest in vain ; for he beholds thy beams no more, whether thy yellow hair flows on the eastern clouds or thou tremblest at the gates of the west. But thou art, perhaps, like me, for a season ; thy years will have an end. Thou shalt sleep in thy clouds careless of the voice of the morning.
Page 14 - O thou that rollest above, round as the shield of my fathers! Whence are thy beams, O sun! thy everlasting light? Thou comest forth, in thy awful beauty; the stars hide themselves in the sky; the moon, cold and pale, sinks in the western wave. But thou thyself movest alone: who can be a companion of thy course!
Page 6 - I have seen the walls of Balclutha, but they were desolate. The fire had resounded in the halls: and the voice of the people is heard no more. The stream of Clutha was removed from its place, by the fall of the walls. The thistle shook there its lonely head: the moss whistled to the wind. The fox looked out from the windows, the rank grass of the wall waved round its head. Desolate is the dwelling of Moina, silence is in the house of her fathers.
Page 49 - Star of descending night! fair is thy light in the west! thou liftest thy unshorn head from thy cloud; thy steps are stately on thy hill. What dost thou behold in the plain ? The stormy winds are laid. The murmur of the torrent comes from afar. Roaring waves climb the distant rock. The flies of evening are on their feeble wings: the hum of their course is on the field. What dost thou behold, fair light ? But thou dost smile and depart. The waves come with joy around thee: they bathe thy lovely hair....
Page 47 - O Connal ! it was here thou didst fall. Thine arm was like a storm ; thy sword a bean. of the sky ; thy height, a rock on the plain ; thine eyes, a furnace of fire. Louder than a storm was thy voice, in the battles of thy steel. Warriors fell by thy sword, as the thistle by the staff of a boy.
Page 52 - RYNO The wind and the rain are past: calm is the noon of day. The clouds are divided in heaven. Over the green hills flies the inconstant sun. Red through the stony vale comes down the stream of the hill. Sweet are thy murmurs, O stream! but more sweet is the voice I hear. It is the voice of Alpin, the son of song, mourning for the dead!
Page 50 - Ullin! stately Ryno ! Alpin, with the tuneful voice ! the soft complaint of Minona ! How are ye changed, my friends, since the days of Selma's feast ! when we contended, like gales of spring, as they fly along the hill, and bend by turns the feebly whistling grass.
Page 177 - No : ye dark-rolling years, Fingal delights not in blood. Tears are wintry streams that waste away my soul. But, when I lie down to rest, then comes the mighty voice of war. It awakes me in my hall, and calls forth all my steel. It shall call it forth no more ; Ossian, take thou thy father's spear. Lift it, in battle, when the proud arise. " My fathers, Ossian, trace my steps ; my deeds are pleasant to their eyes. Wherever I come forth to battle, on my field, are their columns of mist.
Page 9 - ... of smoke pleased mine eye, when they rose above my walls ! I often looked back, with gladness, when my friends fled along the hill. But when the years of my youth came on, I beheld the moss of my fallen walls : my sigh arose with the morning, and my tears descended with night. Shall I not fight, I said to my soul, against the children of my foes ? And I will fight, O bard ! I feel the strength of my soul.