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216
OSSIAN DEPARTING TO HIS FATHERS.
IMITATED FROM MACPHERSON'S OSSIAN, 1780.
Where the dark torrent rolls o'er Lutha's vale,
And from the rock the thistle's beard is driv'n,
The floret trembles to the northern gale,
Weary and cover'd with the drops of heaven.
And from the rock the thistle's beard is driv'n,
The floret trembles to the northern gale,
Weary and cover'd with the drops of heaven.
And “why, O gale, awake me?” (as it heaves
Its sleepy head) it says, or seems to say;
“The blast shall scatter all my fading leaves,
“Ere Lutha's woody skirts are ting'd with day.
Its sleepy head) it says, or seems to say;
“The blast shall scatter all my fading leaves,
“Ere Lutha's woody skirts are ting'd with day.
“To-morrow shall the pensive traveller come,
“Who in my bright attire remembers me;
“O'er all the field his wishful eyes may roam,
“But never more those eyes my place shall see.”
“Who in my bright attire remembers me;
“O'er all the field his wishful eyes may roam,
“But never more those eyes my place shall see.”
217
So for the harp of Ossian shall, in vain,
The hunter, at the dawn of morning, seek:
“Where is the son of high Fingal? the strain
“Sweet to my soul!” a tear shall wet his cheek.
The hunter, at the dawn of morning, seek:
“Where is the son of high Fingal? the strain
“Sweet to my soul!” a tear shall wet his cheek.
Here, as I cast my vagrant eyes around,
On melancholy Lutha left alone,
My voice is like the wind's last dying sound,
When it forsakes the woods with feeble moan.
On melancholy Lutha left alone,
My voice is like the wind's last dying sound,
When it forsakes the woods with feeble moan.
The venerable oak its branches bends
Over the gloomy stream; and, as it sighs
Thro' all its hoary moss, the murmur blends
With the rude whistling fern where Ossian lies.
Over the gloomy stream; and, as it sighs
Thro' all its hoary moss, the murmur blends
With the rude whistling fern where Ossian lies.
Yet not at distance I behold the day
When I exclaim'd, “The joy of youth returns:
“Son of the Rock, come listen to my lay,
“With thoughts of other times my bosom burns.
When I exclaim'd, “The joy of youth returns:
“Son of the Rock, come listen to my lay,
“With thoughts of other times my bosom burns.
218
“So when the howling spirit of the north
“Hath ceas'd the dark-red mountain to deform,
“Amid the western sky the sun looks forth
“In brightness from behind the broken storm.
“Hath ceas'd the dark-red mountain to deform,
“Amid the western sky the sun looks forth
“In brightness from behind the broken storm.
“Its dewy head each upland forest rears;
“Fresh in the vale rejoices the blue stream;
“The aged warriour on his staff appears,
“And lo, his grey locks glitter in the beam.”
“Fresh in the vale rejoices the blue stream;
“The aged warriour on his staff appears,
“And lo, his grey locks glitter in the beam.”
Thus, with the glow of former years, I said;
And, as the many-colour'd days of old
Were mark'd with deeds of heroes, I survey'd
The traces of the tales I once had told.
And, as the many-colour'd days of old
Were mark'd with deeds of heroes, I survey'd
The traces of the tales I once had told.
I saw Cuthullin's car, the flame of death,
As Swaran darken'd, like a roaring flood:
I saw his high-maned coursers spurn the heath,
Snort o'er the slain, and bathe their hoofs in blood.
As Swaran darken'd, like a roaring flood:
I saw his high-maned coursers spurn the heath,
Snort o'er the slain, and bathe their hoofs in blood.
219
I saw, as midnight the wild wood o'ercast,
Sudden the ghost of Crugal:—Hah! he stands
Dim and in tears! “My spirit in the blast,
(He faintly cries) “my corse on Erin's sands.”
Sudden the ghost of Crugal:—Hah! he stands
Dim and in tears! “My spirit in the blast,
(He faintly cries) “my corse on Erin's sands.”
As reedy Lego's gale, his voice was shrill;
Dark was his wound: his eyes, decaying flame:
He stood, as the dun mist that robes the hill,
And the stars twinkled thro' his shadowy frame.
Dark was his wound: his eyes, decaying flame:
He stood, as the dun mist that robes the hill,
And the stars twinkled thro' his shadowy frame.
And Agandecca shone upon my sight,
Fair as the moon slow-rising o'er the grove;
Around her—beauty beaming as the light,
Her steps were music, and her sigh was love.
Fair as the moon slow-rising o'er the grove;
Around her—beauty beaming as the light,
Her steps were music, and her sigh was love.
Alas! ev'n now I mourn the crimson tide,
Her blue eyes fill'd with tears, her hair's soft flow;
I see the red-brow'd Starno pierce her side;
I see her falling like a wreath of snow.
Her blue eyes fill'd with tears, her hair's soft flow;
I see the red-brow'd Starno pierce her side;
I see her falling like a wreath of snow.
220
And I beheld the raven-tressed maid
Who scorn'd, for Ossian's love, full many a chief;
And, as I gaz'd upon her beauteous shade,
Cherish'd, yet once again, the joy of grief.
Who scorn'd, for Ossian's love, full many a chief;
And, as I gaz'd upon her beauteous shade,
Cherish'd, yet once again, the joy of grief.
I saw the blooming youth of Fillan fall
Amidst the strife of Erin's carnag'd field;
While, in the stillness of his distant hall,
The cold blood wander'd o'er his rifted shield.
Amidst the strife of Erin's carnag'd field;
While, in the stillness of his distant hall,
The cold blood wander'd o'er his rifted shield.
Then too I saw the warriour's helmet-plume
Scatter'd and torn:—I heard him, as he spoke,
“Ossian! with pity mark thy Fillan's doom,
“I faint—O lay me in that hollow rock!”
Scatter'd and torn:—I heard him, as he spoke,
“Ossian! with pity mark thy Fillan's doom,
“I faint—O lay me in that hollow rock!”
I saw Sulmalla trembling as the roe,
When for her native lands she heav'd a sigh;
And Cathmar musing on the virgin's woe,
Her vagrant footsteps and her fearful eye.
When for her native lands she heav'd a sigh;
And Cathmar musing on the virgin's woe,
Her vagrant footsteps and her fearful eye.
221
Where infant Carthon leapt with thoughtless joy,
As the bright flame involv'd his father's halls,
I saw in desolated silence lie
The dreary ruin of Balclutha's walls.
As the bright flame involv'd his father's halls,
I saw in desolated silence lie
The dreary ruin of Balclutha's walls.
Once sweetly-soothing to my pensive soul,
Such airy visions could my sighs awake:
The soft-reflected forms on memory stole,
Like moon-beams fading from a distant lake.
Such airy visions could my sighs awake:
The soft-reflected forms on memory stole,
Like moon-beams fading from a distant lake.
And they were pleasant as the morning dew,
That hangs, bright-clustering, on the hill of roes;
Where the sun faintly spreads its orient hue,
And the grey waters in the vale repose.
That hangs, bright-clustering, on the hill of roes;
Where the sun faintly spreads its orient hue,
And the grey waters in the vale repose.
Ev'n now the ghosts of passing Bards I hear,
And catch their harpings as they glide along
But cold, alas! is Ossian's closing ear;
No more I listen to the sons of Song.
And catch their harpings as they glide along
But cold, alas! is Ossian's closing ear;
No more I listen to the sons of Song.
222
Then, O Fingal, who dauntless in the fight
Didst whirl thy falchion, like the lightning's sheet;
And, as the tempest, raging in thy might,
Bid the rocks burst in fragments at thy feet;
Didst whirl thy falchion, like the lightning's sheet;
And, as the tempest, raging in thy might,
Bid the rocks burst in fragments at thy feet;
Thou, who, at Loda, couldst proclaim aloud,
(Eager the dismal spirit to withstand)
His sword a meteor, and his shield a cloud,
Tho' blasts were in the hollow of his hand;
(Eager the dismal spirit to withstand)
His sword a meteor, and his shield a cloud,
Tho' blasts were in the hollow of his hand;
Tho' thunder was his voice, and flame his breath,
His dreadful form bent forward from on high;
His nostrils pouring pestilential death,
As the pale nations vanish'd from his eye;
His dreadful form bent forward from on high;
His nostrils pouring pestilential death,
As the pale nations vanish'd from his eye;
Thou, who couldst bid thy Luno's massy blade
Thro' the dark ghost its gleaming path disclose;
While, as he shriek'd, the deep's still'd wave was stay'd,
And, roll'd into himself, upon the winds he rose:
Thro' the dark ghost its gleaming path disclose;
While, as he shriek'd, the deep's still'd wave was stay'd,
And, roll'd into himself, upon the winds he rose:
223
Hear, glorious Chief, and ope thy vaulted hall;
I come—yet harping shall I mix with air:
Bear, O ye winds, my accents to Fingal,
The voice of him, who prais'd the mighty, bear.
I come—yet harping shall I mix with air:
Bear, O ye winds, my accents to Fingal,
The voice of him, who prais'd the mighty, bear.
The northern blasts, O king, thy gates unfold:
Dimly in all thy arms I see thee gleam;
Yet not as erst, the terror of the bold,
Tho' by thy power the stormy meteors stream.
Dimly in all thy arms I see thee gleam;
Yet not as erst, the terror of the bold,
Tho' by thy power the stormy meteors stream.
There is a murmur on the heath—I hear
The voice of high Fingal—that seems to say,
(Long, long hath it been absent from mine ear)
“Come to my halls, come Ossian, come away!”
The voice of high Fingal—that seems to say,
(Long, long hath it been absent from mine ear)
“Come to my halls, come Ossian, come away!”
Tho' silent are the plains where battle rung,
Yet in the four grey stones we rest our fame:
In woody Selma hath our harp been strung,
Tho' its tones vanish'd as the vapoury flame.
Yet in the four grey stones we rest our fame:
In woody Selma hath our harp been strung,
Tho' its tones vanish'd as the vapoury flame.
224
“Come, Ossian, from thy Cona's desart vales!
“Sail with thy sires, in clouds embosom'd deep,
“O'er heaven!” I come; the life of Ossian fails:
By Mora's dim stone I shall sink to sleep.
“Sail with thy sires, in clouds embosom'd deep,
“O'er heaven!” I come; the life of Ossian fails:
By Mora's dim stone I shall sink to sleep.
The winds shall whistle to my earthy bed;
And they may lift my wither'd tresses hoar:
But Ossian cannot wake—his clay-cold head
Is doom'd to feel the rustling blast no more.
And they may lift my wither'd tresses hoar:
But Ossian cannot wake—his clay-cold head
Is doom'd to feel the rustling blast no more.
Yet shall my fame survive this feeble form,
And, like the towering oak of Morven grow,
Which proudly lifts its head to meet the storm,
And waves in triumph o'er the wreck below!
And, like the towering oak of Morven grow,
Which proudly lifts its head to meet the storm,
And waves in triumph o'er the wreck below!
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