 | Poems by Three Friends |  |
86
IMITATED FROM OSSIAN.
Lonely dweller of the mountain!
Sweet and pleasant is thy song;
With the murmurs of the fountain,
Float the liquid notes along.
Sweet and pleasant is thy song;
With the murmurs of the fountain,
Float the liquid notes along.
Ossian's soul awakes to danger,
Ossian seeks the strife of spears,
Grasps his bossy shield, O stranger!
As in days of other years.
Ossian seeks the strife of spears,
Grasps his bossy shield, O stranger!
As in days of other years.
87
But the tide of battle slumbers,
Feeble is my aged hand;—
Wilt thou listen to my numbers,
Dweller of the secret land?
Feeble is my aged hand;—
Wilt thou listen to my numbers,
Dweller of the secret land?
Joys of my youth's untroubled morning,
O'er my raptured bosom roll;
Deeds of other days returning,
Crowd upon my beating soul.
O'er my raptured bosom roll;
Deeds of other days returning,
Crowd upon my beating soul.
Thus appears the sun at even,
Gilding ocean's foaming stream;
When the parting clouds of heaven,
Fly before his setting beam.
Gilding ocean's foaming stream;
When the parting clouds of heaven,
Fly before his setting beam.
Glistening in his rays, the mountain
Lifts its green head, wet with dew;
In the vale the lucid fountain
Rolls its waters, bright and blue.
Lifts its green head, wet with dew;
In the vale the lucid fountain
Rolls its waters, bright and blue.
88
On his staff, infirm and hoary,
Forth the aged hero strays;—
War has crowned his steps with glory,
Fame has twined his head with bays.
Forth the aged hero strays;—
War has crowned his steps with glory,
Fame has twined his head with bays.
Round him play the fanning breezes,
Wafted from the mountain's peak;
Sun beams glittering in his tresses,
Stream upon his withered cheek.
Wafted from the mountain's peak;
Sun beams glittering in his tresses,
Stream upon his withered cheek.
Hear'st thou not the armour rattle,
Echoing from my hall afar?
'Tis the shining blade of battle,
'Tis the bossy shield of war.
Echoing from my hall afar?
'Tis the shining blade of battle,
'Tis the bossy shield of war.
Crimsoned is that blade with slaughter,
That shield the great Dunthalmo bore,
Chief of Teutha's winding water,
Chief of Teutha's woody shore.
That shield the great Dunthalmo bore,
Chief of Teutha's winding water,
Chief of Teutha's woody shore.
89
But in death the hero slumbers,
By my purpled spear he fell;
Listen to my storied numbers,
Dweller of the secret cell!
By my purpled spear he fell;
Listen to my storied numbers,
Dweller of the secret cell!
| Poems by Three Friends | |