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 |  |
SHE.
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.
HE.
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.
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.
| The Battle of Lora | |