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 |  |
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Ryno! my Friend! these heart-sprung Tears are shed,
This Voice of Woe is rais'd, for Morar dead:
Tho' tall thy Stature on the Hill is seen,
And fair thy Beauty on the level Green,
Yet thou must fall like him, while all around
Thy Tomb—the Voice of Sorrow shall resound:
Unstrung thy Bow shall lie within the Hall,
Nor Echo from the Hills her Huntsman call.
This Voice of Woe is rais'd, for Morar dead:
Tho' tall thy Stature on the Hill is seen,
And fair thy Beauty on the level Green,
Yet thou must fall like him, while all around
Thy Tomb—the Voice of Sorrow shall resound:
Unstrung thy Bow shall lie within the Hall,
Nor Echo from the Hills her Huntsman call.
Swift wer't thou, Morar, as the Mountain Roe,
Wrath o'er thy Face diffus'd a fiery Glow.
Descending furious as December Storm,
Thy Sword like Light'ning could the Field deform;
Thy Voice express'd the Torrent after Rain,
And echo'd with Heaven's Thunder thro' the Plain.
Wrath o'er thy Face diffus'd a fiery Glow.
Descending furious as December Storm,
Thy Sword like Light'ning could the Field deform;
Thy Voice express'd the Torrent after Rain,
And echo'd with Heaven's Thunder thro' the Plain.
Beneath his warrior Arm what Numbers fell,
Thou can'st, O Genius of my Country, tell!
His Arm mow'd down the Valiant and the Great,
As falls before the Scythe the ripen'd Wheat.
Thou can'st, O Genius of my Country, tell!
His Arm mow'd down the Valiant and the Great,
As falls before the Scythe the ripen'd Wheat.
But how serene thy Brow, beheld afar
Returning mildly glorious from the War?
Thy Face appear'd the Sun when Rains subside,
Or shone the gentler Moon at Midnight Tide;
Calm as the Bosom of the lucid Lake,
When not a whisp'ring Breeze remains awake.
Returning mildly glorious from the War?
Thy Face appear'd the Sun when Rains subside,
Or shone the gentler Moon at Midnight Tide;
Calm as the Bosom of the lucid Lake,
When not a whisp'ring Breeze remains awake.
Alas! how narrow is thy Place become!
How low! how darksome thine eternal Home!
Three Paces round out-measure now thy Grave,
O Morar! late the Mighty and the Brave.
No other Witness of his Fame is seen,
Save three rude Stones, whose Tops are moss'd with Green.
How low! how darksome thine eternal Home!
Three Paces round out-measure now thy Grave,
O Morar! late the Mighty and the Brave.
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Save three rude Stones, whose Tops are moss'd with Green.
Beneath yon leafless solitary Tree,
Sad Emblem of decay'd Mortality,
Thro' the long Grass, where moans the passing Wind,
The Grave of gallant Morar there you'll find.
Sad Emblem of decay'd Mortality,
Thro' the long Grass, where moans the passing Wind,
The Grave of gallant Morar there you'll find.
Morar, the Mighty's fallen—he is no more—
No Mother's Sighs his hapless Fate deplore!
No Maid his Loss bewails in plaintive Strains,
Nor pours out Tears of Love upon his cold Remains;
For Ah! the Dame is dead that gave him Birth,
And Morglan's lovely Daughter laid in Earth.
No Mother's Sighs his hapless Fate deplore!
No Maid his Loss bewails in plaintive Strains,
Nor pours out Tears of Love upon his cold Remains;
For Ah! the Dame is dead that gave him Birth,
And Morglan's lovely Daughter laid in Earth.
Who! who is he comes tott'ring o'er the Plain!
Scarce can his Staff his feeble Limbs sustain!
Grief marks his furrow'd Face, his hoary Head
Is white with Age, his Eyes with Tears are red.
Scarce can his Staff his feeble Limbs sustain!
Grief marks his furrow'd Face, his hoary Head
Is white with Age, his Eyes with Tears are red.
It is thy Father, Morar,—yes—'tis he—
Thy hopeless Father—he had none but thee—
Oft' when thy gallant Actions Fame has sung
How o'er the Tale enraptur'd has he hung;
Yet Ah! 'till now he heard not of the Wound
That brought his Darling breathless to the Ground.
Long, like an Oak, he flourish'd on the Plains,
Ah! why this Blow to shatter his Remains?
Thy hopeless Father—he had none but thee—
Oft' when thy gallant Actions Fame has sung
How o'er the Tale enraptur'd has he hung;
Yet Ah! 'till now he heard not of the Wound
That brought his Darling breathless to the Ground.
Long, like an Oak, he flourish'd on the Plains,
Ah! why this Blow to shatter his Remains?
Thy Son is deaf—weep, wretched Father weep—
Low lie the Dead, and heavy is their Sleep;
Their Pillow Earth, with them thro' one long Night
He sleeps for ever ravish'd from thy Sight.
For ever gone,—no more thy Voice to hear:
That Voice that us'd his warlike Soul to cheer.
When will the Morning of the Grave arrive,
To bid the Slumberer in the Dust revive?
Low lie the Dead, and heavy is their Sleep;
Their Pillow Earth, with them thro' one long Night
He sleeps for ever ravish'd from thy Sight.
For ever gone,—no more thy Voice to hear:
That Voice that us'd his warlike Soul to cheer.
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To bid the Slumberer in the Dust revive?
Thou bravest of the Sons of Men, farewel!
Who could the First in every Field excel.
The Field no more shall find thy Sword display'd,
Whose Edge beam'd Lightning thro' the darkest Shade.
Who could the First in every Field excel.
The Field no more shall find thy Sword display'd,
Whose Edge beam'd Lightning thro' the darkest Shade.
Thy Race is fallen,—no Son preserves thy Name,
Yet shall this Verse immortalize thy Fame!
And thy fair Deeds shall unborn Ages tell,
How mighty Morar liv'd! How fought! How fell!
Yet shall this Verse immortalize thy Fame!
And thy fair Deeds shall unborn Ages tell,
How mighty Morar liv'd! How fought! How fell!
| The Battle of Lora | |