 | [Poems by Whittier in] A Study of Whittier's Apprenticeship as a Poet |  |
DEATH OF OSSIAN
The moon, unseen by Ossian, shed
Its light on Selma's halls;
Silvering the armor of the dead
That frowned along the walls,
But all was cold and desolate
No soul of song was there;
And Morven's latest minstrel sate
Wrapt in his dark despair
Beneath the banners of the dead,
That flapped above his drooping head.
Its light on Selma's halls;
Silvering the armor of the dead
That frowned along the walls,
But all was cold and desolate
No soul of song was there;
And Morven's latest minstrel sate
Wrapt in his dark despair
Beneath the banners of the dead,
That flapped above his drooping head.
He sat within the crumbled porch,
Unseeing and unseen;
Where flashed of old the wassail torch,
And princely forms had been.
No more was heard the sound of shells—
The harper's tale of fame:
But there at dreary intervals
The gusty night-breeze came,
And caught the gloomy raven's cry,
Hoarse mingling as it hurried by.
Unseeing and unseen;
Where flashed of old the wassail torch,
And princely forms had been.
No more was heard the sound of shells—
The harper's tale of fame:
But there at dreary intervals
The gusty night-breeze came,
And caught the gloomy raven's cry,
Hoarse mingling as it hurried by.
171
He sat alone—there was not one
Familiar voice or tread;
The mighty of his race were gone,
Their glory vanished!
And nought was left to soothe and bless
Of all his youth had known:
Malvina's soul of tenderness
And Evir-allen's tone—
The husband's joy—the father's pride,—
The voice of praise, were all denied.
Familiar voice or tread;
The mighty of his race were gone,
Their glory vanished!
And nought was left to soothe and bless
Of all his youth had known:
Malvina's soul of tenderness
And Evir-allen's tone—
The husband's joy—the father's pride,—
The voice of praise, were all denied.
Tuneless beside the drooping bard,
The harp of Selma lay,
Its thrilling chords had not been stirred
For many a weary day;
For oh! that harp could wake no smile
Where rapture once had glowed.
The winds that wasted Selma's pile,
Swept o'er the cold abode
Of those who bent in gleaming mail
To list its master's magic tale.
The harp of Selma lay,
Its thrilling chords had not been stirred
For many a weary day;
For oh! that harp could wake no smile
Where rapture once had glowed.
The winds that wasted Selma's pile,
Swept o'er the cold abode
Of those who bent in gleaming mail
To list its master's magic tale.
Hoarsely and heavily the breeze
Along the ruins passed,
And Selma's old and gnarled trees
Groaned deeply in the blast.
It bore a sound to Ossian's ear
Of mournfulness and dread;
He raised his thin grey locks to hear
The summons of the dead.
For well he knew some hero's shade
Was hovering o'er his sightless head.
Along the ruins passed,
And Selma's old and gnarled trees
Groaned deeply in the blast.
It bore a sound to Ossian's ear
Of mournfulness and dread;
He raised his thin grey locks to hear
The summons of the dead.
For well he knew some hero's shade
Was hovering o'er his sightless head.
'Twas Fingal's voice—'twas Tremnor's son!
Renowned in many a lay,
Him bending from his cloud of dun
He called the bard away.
“Thy harp,” he said, “in Selma's hall,
Has echoed long and well;
A memory lingers round this wall,
Of those who proudly fell;
And every cliff that Morven rears,
The record of the mighty bears.
Renowned in many a lay,
Him bending from his cloud of dun
He called the bard away.
“Thy harp,” he said, “in Selma's hall,
Has echoed long and well;
A memory lingers round this wall,
Of those who proudly fell;
And every cliff that Morven rears,
The record of the mighty bears.
172
“And why should Ossian linger there
Forgotten and alone?
Come thou to Morven's mighty men—
The glorious who are gone.”
“I come, my sire,” the minstrel said,
“I feel that even now,
The welcome hand of death is laid
Upon my aged brow.
And soon a minstrel's name shall be
The only record left of me.
Forgotten and alone?
Come thou to Morven's mighty men—
The glorious who are gone.”
“I come, my sire,” the minstrel said,
“I feel that even now,
The welcome hand of death is laid
Upon my aged brow.
And soon a minstrel's name shall be
The only record left of me.
“But that shall live—with Fingal's name
Shall Ossian still be known;
Blest with the record of thy fame,
The bard shall speak my own.”
He ceased—a low unearthly moan
Rose sadly on the blast;
Untouched, the harp sent forth its tone
The soul of Ossian passed!
By stranger hands his grave was made,
And the grey cairn piled o'er his head.
Shall Ossian still be known;
Blest with the record of thy fame,
The bard shall speak my own.”
He ceased—a low unearthly moan
Rose sadly on the blast;
Untouched, the harp sent forth its tone
The soul of Ossian passed!
By stranger hands his grave was made,
And the grey cairn piled o'er his head.
And peace be with thee bard of old!
What though thy soul was high;
And war's grim chart was darkly rolled
Beneath thy frowning eye:
Thine was a wild and stormy age,
To Christian peace unknown;
And dark as is thy deathless page,
The master's power is shown
In many a sketch to fancy dear;
And many a tale that claims the tear.
What though thy soul was high;
And war's grim chart was darkly rolled
Beneath thy frowning eye:
Thine was a wild and stormy age,
To Christian peace unknown;
And dark as is thy deathless page,
The master's power is shown
In many a sketch to fancy dear;
And many a tale that claims the tear.
Boston Statesman, March 8, 1828
| [Poems by Whittier in] A Study of Whittier's Apprenticeship as a Poet | |