The poems of Ossian &c. containing the Poetical Works of James Macpherson, Esq. in prose and rhyme: with notes and illustrations by Malcolm Laing. In two volumes |
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TO THE MEMORY OF AN OFFICER KILLED BEFORE QUEBEC. |
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 | The poems of Ossian |  |
592
TO THE MEMORY OF AN OFFICER KILLED BEFORE QUEBEC.
Ah me! what sorrow are we born to bear!
How many causes claim the falling tear!
In one sad tenor life's dark current flows,
And every moment has its load of woes:
In vain we toil for visionary ease,
Or hope for blessings in the vale of peace:
Coy happiness ne'er blesses human eyes,
Or but appears a moment, and she flies.
How many causes claim the falling tear!
In one sad tenor life's dark current flows,
And every moment has its load of woes:
In vain we toil for visionary ease,
Or hope for blessings in the vale of peace:
Coy happiness ne'er blesses human eyes,
Or but appears a moment, and she flies.
When peace itself can seldom dry the tear,
What floods demand the dreary wastes of war!
Where undistinguished ruin reigns o'er all,
At once the truant and the valiant fall;
Where timeless shrouds inwrap the great and brave,
And Daphnis sinks into a nameless grave.
What floods demand the dreary wastes of war!
Where undistinguished ruin reigns o'er all,
At once the truant and the valiant fall;
Where timeless shrouds inwrap the great and brave,
And Daphnis sinks into a nameless grave.
593
Dear hapless youth, cut off in early bloom,
A fair, but mangled victim to the tomb!
No friendly hand to grace thy fall was near,
No parent's eye to shed one pious tear;
No favoured maid to close thy languid eyes,
And send thee mindful of her to the skies:
On some cold bank thy decent limbs were laid;
Oh! honoured living, but neglected dead!
A fair, but mangled victim to the tomb!
No friendly hand to grace thy fall was near,
No parent's eye to shed one pious tear;
No favoured maid to close thy languid eyes,
And send thee mindful of her to the skies:
On some cold bank thy decent limbs were laid;
Oh! honoured living, but neglected dead!
So soon forsake us, dear lamented shade,
To mix obscurely with the nameless dead!
Thus baulk the rising glory of thy name,
And leave unfinished an increasing fame!
Thus sink for ever from a parent's eyes!
Wert thou not cruel? or ye partial, skies?
To mix obscurely with the nameless dead!
Thus baulk the rising glory of thy name,
And leave unfinished an increasing fame!
Thus sink for ever from a parent's eyes!
Wert thou not cruel? or ye partial, skies?
But what can bound, O thou by all approved!
The sad, sad sorrows of the friend you loved?
A friend who doted on thy worth before!
A friend who never shall behold thee more!
Who saw, combined, thy manly graces rise,
To please the mind and bless the ravished eyes;
A soul replete with all that's great and fair,
A form which cruel savages might spare.
The sad, sad sorrows of the friend you loved?
A friend who doted on thy worth before!
A friend who never shall behold thee more!
Who saw, combined, thy manly graces rise,
To please the mind and bless the ravished eyes;
A soul replete with all that's great and fair,
A form which cruel savages might spare.
If, in the midnight hour, lamented shade,
You view the place where thy remains are laid;
If pale you hover o'er your secret grave,
Or viewless flit o'er Hoshelega's wave;
O! when my troubled soul is sunk in rest,
And peaceful slumbers sooth my anxious breast,
To fancy's eyes in all thy bloom appear,
Once more thy own unsullied image wear;
Unfold the secrets of your world to me,
Tell what thou art, and what I soon shall be.
You view the place where thy remains are laid;
If pale you hover o'er your secret grave,
Or viewless flit o'er Hoshelega's wave;
O! when my troubled soul is sunk in rest,
And peaceful slumbers sooth my anxious breast,
To fancy's eyes in all thy bloom appear,
Once more thy own unsullied image wear;
Unfold the secrets of your world to me,
Tell what thou art, and what I soon shall be.
He comes! he comes! but O how changed of late!
How much deforms the leaden hand of fate!
Why do I see that generous bosom gored?
Why bathed in blood the visionary sword?
What rudeness ruffled that disordered hair?
Why, blameless shade, that mournful aspect wear?
For sure such virtues must rewarded be,
And Heaven itself approve of Wolfe and thee.
Yes, thou art blessed above the rolling sphere;
'Tis for myself, not thee, I shed the tear.
Where shall I now such blameless friendship find,
Thou last best comfort of a drooping mind?
To whom the pressures of my soul impart,
Transfer my sorrows, and divide my heart?
Remote is he who ruled my breast before,
And he shall sooth me into peace no more.
How much deforms the leaden hand of fate!
594
Why bathed in blood the visionary sword?
What rudeness ruffled that disordered hair?
Why, blameless shade, that mournful aspect wear?
For sure such virtues must rewarded be,
And Heaven itself approve of Wolfe and thee.
Yes, thou art blessed above the rolling sphere;
'Tis for myself, not thee, I shed the tear.
Where shall I now such blameless friendship find,
Thou last best comfort of a drooping mind?
To whom the pressures of my soul impart,
Transfer my sorrows, and divide my heart?
Remote is he who ruled my breast before,
And he shall sooth me into peace no more.
Men born to grief, an unrelenting kind,
Of breasts discordant, and of various mind,
Scarce, 'midst of thousands, find a single friend;
If Heaven at length the precious blessing send,
A sudden death recalls him from below;
A moment's bliss is paid with years of woe.
Of breasts discordant, and of various mind,
Scarce, 'midst of thousands, find a single friend;
If Heaven at length the precious blessing send,
A sudden death recalls him from below;
A moment's bliss is paid with years of woe.
What boots the rising sigh? in vain we weep,
We, too, like him, anon must fall asleep;
Life, and its sorrows too, shall soon be o'er,
And the heart heave with bursting sighs no more;
Death shed oblivious rest on every head,
And one dull silence reign o'er all the dead.
We, too, like him, anon must fall asleep;
Life, and its sorrows too, shall soon be o'er,
And the heart heave with bursting sighs no more;
Death shed oblivious rest on every head,
And one dull silence reign o'er all the dead.
| The poems of Ossian | |