The Battle of Lora A Poem. With Some Fragments written in the Erse, or Irish Language, By Ossian, the Son of Fingal. Translated into English Verse By Mr. Derrick |
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 | The Battle of Lora |  |
The Rain's dispers'd, the Storm of Wind is past,
No more I shiver in the dreary Blast.
Calm is the Noon. The burning Lamp of Day
From Hill to Hill pursues his circling Way;
A rising Rain-bow bends across the Skies,
And fleecy Clouds display their varying Dies;
Red pours the sudden Stream o'er yonder Steep,
And thro' the Valley spreads with murm'ring Sweep:
How softly plaintive sounds it on mine Ear,
Yet softer far yon mourning Voice I hear.
'Tis Alpin's,—he in sadly soothing Strain,
Laments some gallant Youth untimely slain.
Alpin, the Son of Song, his Head of Snow,
Bends under Age, and Tears his Eyes o'erflow.
No more I shiver in the dreary Blast.
Calm is the Noon. The burning Lamp of Day
From Hill to Hill pursues his circling Way;
A rising Rain-bow bends across the Skies,
And fleecy Clouds display their varying Dies;
Red pours the sudden Stream o'er yonder Steep,
And thro' the Valley spreads with murm'ring Sweep:
How softly plaintive sounds it on mine Ear,
Yet softer far yon mourning Voice I hear.
'Tis Alpin's,—he in sadly soothing Strain,
Laments some gallant Youth untimely slain.
Alpin, the Son of Song, his Head of Snow,
Bends under Age, and Tears his Eyes o'erflow.
Say, Son of Song, why on the silent Hill,
These lonely Bounds thy sad Complainings fill?
Why, like the Wave upon the desart Shore,
Or Blasts thro' wintry Woods do'st thou thy Fate deplore?
These lonely Bounds thy sad Complainings fill?
Why, like the Wave upon the desart Shore,
Or Blasts thro' wintry Woods do'st thou thy Fate deplore?
| The Battle of Lora | |