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 APPARITION.
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 | The Battle of Lora |  |
The APPARITION.
An Elegy.
Upon this Hill, where constant raves the Wind,
Close by a Fountain's Murmur sweet reclin'd,
I listening lie, while o'er my drooping Head
A single Tree spreads solitary Shade.
Deep rolls the River thro' the blasted Heath;
The Lake with troubled Waters swell beneath:
Swift down the Hill the motly Tribe descend;
No whistling Cowherds nigh at hand attend.
No Hunter's Horn alarms the distant Hill;
Tho' Noon, the Scene is silent all and still.
Sad as the Dove, when by its Mate forlorn,
Alone I sit, the long, long Day, and mourn.
How pleasant would the barren Heath appear,
If the lov'd Mistress of my Heart were near,
With her curl'd Tresses floating loose behind;
While her soft Bosom kiss'd the passing Wind,
But, ah! the Wind, unwilling thence to part,
Might bolt with treble Bars of Ice her Heart.
She mourns her Friends that lie beneath the Hill;
The Tears I'll wipe that from thine Eyes distil;
And to thy Father's House while thee I bring,
Sweet Comfort in my Charmer's Ear I'll sing.
Close by a Fountain's Murmur sweet reclin'd,
I listening lie, while o'er my drooping Head
A single Tree spreads solitary Shade.
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The Lake with troubled Waters swell beneath:
Swift down the Hill the motly Tribe descend;
No whistling Cowherds nigh at hand attend.
No Hunter's Horn alarms the distant Hill;
Tho' Noon, the Scene is silent all and still.
Sad as the Dove, when by its Mate forlorn,
Alone I sit, the long, long Day, and mourn.
How pleasant would the barren Heath appear,
If the lov'd Mistress of my Heart were near,
With her curl'd Tresses floating loose behind;
While her soft Bosom kiss'd the passing Wind,
But, ah! the Wind, unwilling thence to part,
Might bolt with treble Bars of Ice her Heart.
She mourns her Friends that lie beneath the Hill;
The Tears I'll wipe that from thine Eyes distil;
And to thy Father's House while thee I bring,
Sweet Comfort in my Charmer's Ear I'll sing.
Ha! is it she that yonder beams like Light,
Or the full Lunar Orb in Autumn bright?
The Sun, just rising o'er a Summer Storm,
Less splendid seems than her delicious Form.
She speaks,—but, ah! her Voice how weak and low!
As thro' the marshy Reeds soft Breezes blow.
SHE.Or the full Lunar Orb in Autumn bright?
The Sun, just rising o'er a Summer Storm,
Less splendid seems than her delicious Form.
She speaks,—but, ah! her Voice how weak and low!
As thro' the marshy Reeds soft Breezes blow.
Return'st thou safe, my Shilric, from the War?
Where are thy Friends, my Love? they travell'd far.
Of thy Destruction on the Hill they tell;
I heard, and wept incessant that you fell.
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Yes, I return, my Love, and I alone;
Of all my Race beside surviveth none.
No more they'll bless them in your sunny Eyes!
Their Graves I pil'd,—on yonder Plain they rise.
But on the barren Turf, why, prithee, say,
Why o'er the desart Hill alone do'st stray?
SHE.
Tho', Shilric, o'er the Hill thou see'st me roam,
My Bones are hears'd in their eternal Home:
Clos'd in the wintry House of Death I lie;
Grief, for thy Loss, drank all my Vitals dry.
HE.
Yet hear, Vinella, ah! she glides away,
Like the grey Dawn before the rising Day.
But one Word more, my Love, and then depart,—
Behold these Tears, the Offspring of my Heart;
I fear 'twill break,—'tis wrung with constant Grief,—
A Look, a Word, will waft some kind Relief.
When living, fairer than the Light wer't thou;
But pale and ghastly are thy Beauties now.
Her brooding. Wings should awful Silence spread,
Dwell in the Gale suspended o'er my Head,
Thence my sad Soul with softest Accents chear;
Thy well-known Voice I could for ever hear;
Come on the Mountain Blast, and with the Sound,
Disperse the Mid-Day Silence hovering round.
Like the grey Dawn before the rising Day.
But one Word more, my Love, and then depart,—
Behold these Tears, the Offspring of my Heart;
I fear 'twill break,—'tis wrung with constant Grief,—
A Look, a Word, will waft some kind Relief.
When living, fairer than the Light wer't thou;
But pale and ghastly are thy Beauties now.
Her brooding. Wings should awful Silence spread,
Dwell in the Gale suspended o'er my Head,
Thence my sad Soul with softest Accents chear;
Thy well-known Voice I could for ever hear;
Come on the Mountain Blast, and with the Sound,
Disperse the Mid-Day Silence hovering round.
For on the Summit will I sit alone,
And by the mossy murmuring Fountain moan.
And by the mossy murmuring Fountain moan.
FINIS.
| The Battle of Lora | |