The poems and literary prose of Alexander Wilson ... for the first time fully collected and compared with the original and early editions ... edited ... by the Rev. Alexander B. Grosart ... with portrait, illustrations, &c |
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OSSIAN'S LAMENT.
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 | The poems and literary prose of Alexander Wilson |  |
OSSIAN'S LAMENT.
FROM MACPHERSON'S TRANSLATION.
This Poem is inserted at the repeated solicitations of several gentlemen, who, having favoured the Author with a volume of these beautiful pieces, requested him to attempt the versification of any one of them he thought most interesting. The following was therefore chosen by the Author, as it cannot fail to affect every feeling mind. Those who are acquainted with that immortal Bard's works will see that the original thoughts are strictly retained.
Hard by a rock that from the mountain rose,
Where aged trees hung o'er their withered boughs;
Low on the moss, long lost to joy and peace,
Old Ossian sat, the last of Fingal's race;
Sightless his aged eyes, his visage pale,
And white his beard flow'd in the waving gale;
Silent he list'ned to the northern breeze
That chearless whistled thro' the leafless trees;
Grief in his soul began afresh to bleed,
And thus he mourn'd in deepest woe the dead.
Where aged trees hung o'er their withered boughs;
Low on the moss, long lost to joy and peace,
Old Ossian sat, the last of Fingal's race;
Sightless his aged eyes, his visage pale,
And white his beard flow'd in the waving gale;
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That chearless whistled thro' the leafless trees;
Grief in his soul began afresh to bleed,
And thus he mourn'd in deepest woe the dead.
‘How, like the monarch of the waving wood,
Long beat by winds and lash'd by tempests rude;
How hast thou fall'n before the roaring gust,
With all thy branches round thee in the dust!
Where now is Fingal the renownèd king?
Where Oscar brave, my son, young, fresh as Spring?
Where all my race so fearless once and gay?
All, all alas! lie mouldering in the clay.
Here as I sit, to wail their hapless doom,
Around I grope and feel each warrior's tomb;
While, far below, the river's rushing sweep
Pours hoarsely roaring down each rocky steep.
Long beat by winds and lash'd by tempests rude;
How hast thou fall'n before the roaring gust,
With all thy branches round thee in the dust!
Where now is Fingal the renownèd king?
Where Oscar brave, my son, young, fresh as Spring?
Where all my race so fearless once and gay?
All, all alas! lie mouldering in the clay.
Here as I sit, to wail their hapless doom,
Around I grope and feel each warrior's tomb;
While, far below, the river's rushing sweep
Pours hoarsely roaring down each rocky steep.
‘Ah! while thy once-known currents past me roll,
What, O lone river! say'st thou to my soul?
Back to my mind, worn with Misfortune's blast,
Thou bring'st the sad remembrance of the past.
What, O lone river! say'st thou to my soul?
Back to my mind, worn with Misfortune's blast,
Thou bring'st the sad remembrance of the past.
‘Rang'd on thy banks the race of Fingal stood,
Strong as the lofty, black, aspiring wood;
Keen glanc'd their steely spears with fiery rage,
And bold was he who durst that wrath engage;
Amid the chiefs great Fillan did appear,
And Oscar! thou my noble son was there;
There Fingal stood, unknown to trembling fears,
Strong in the white, the hoary locks of years;
Full rose his sinewy limbs, firm fell his tread,
And wide and fair his ample shoulders spread;
Soon as the terrors of his wrath arose,
Beneath his arm how sunk his dying foes!
Strong as the lofty, black, aspiring wood;
Keen glanc'd their steely spears with fiery rage,
And bold was he who durst that wrath engage;
Amid the chiefs great Fillan did appear,
And Oscar! thou my noble son was there;
There Fingal stood, unknown to trembling fears,
Strong in the white, the hoary locks of years;
Full rose his sinewy limbs, firm fell his tread,
And wide and fair his ample shoulders spread;
Soon as the terrors of his wrath arose,
Beneath his arm how sunk his dying foes!
‘Gaul, son of Morny, came forth from his place,
The tallest, hugest of the human race;
High as an oak upon the hill he stood,
His voice loud-roaring like the roaring flood;
“Why reigns (he cries in proud contempt) alone
The mighty Corval's feeble, tim'rous son?
Unfit is Fingal's slender arm to save,
He ne'er support to his poor people gave;
But here I stand enthron'd in terrors now,
Fierce as a whirlwind on the mountain's brow;
Strong as a storm that roars amid the sea,
Yield son of Corval, coward, yield to me!”
The tallest, hugest of the human race;
High as an oak upon the hill he stood,
His voice loud-roaring like the roaring flood;
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The mighty Corval's feeble, tim'rous son?
Unfit is Fingal's slender arm to save,
He ne'er support to his poor people gave;
But here I stand enthron'd in terrors now,
Fierce as a whirlwind on the mountain's brow;
Strong as a storm that roars amid the sea,
Yield son of Corval, coward, yield to me!”
‘Forth Oscar stood, his breast with rage did glow,
(My son, my noble son would meet the foe!)
But Fingal came, high-moving thro' the host,
And smil'd to hear the haughty vaunter's boast;
Around each other hard their arms they threw,
And fierce the fight, and dread the combat grew;
Madly they struggled o'er the trembling ground,
And deep their heels plough'd up the earth around;
Loud crack'd their bones. As where white billows rave,
The boat leaps light from dashing wave to wave;
Long toil'd the chiefs the doubtful field to gain,
And fell, with night upon the sounding plain.
(My son, my noble son would meet the foe!)
But Fingal came, high-moving thro' the host,
And smil'd to hear the haughty vaunter's boast;
Around each other hard their arms they threw,
And fierce the fight, and dread the combat grew;
Madly they struggled o'er the trembling ground,
And deep their heels plough'd up the earth around;
Loud crack'd their bones. As where white billows rave,
The boat leaps light from dashing wave to wave;
Long toil'd the chiefs the doubtful field to gain,
And fell, with night upon the sounding plain.
‘Thus two huge oaks before the tempest's sweep,
With mingled boughs, roll crashing down the steep;
Bound was the son of Morny, mute with shame;
The hoary, agèd hero overcame.
With mingled boughs, roll crashing down the steep;
Bound was the son of Morny, mute with shame;
The hoary, agèd hero overcame.
‘Fair, with her golden locks of glossy show,
Her polish'd neck and rising breasts of snow;
Fair, as the spirits of the hill appear
When from the cliffs they charm the list'ning ear;
Or when to view, light as the morning's breath,
At silent noon they glide along the heath;
Fair as the arch o'er heav'n's wide dome displayed,
So fair came Minvane the delightful maid.
“Fingal,” she softly said in accents sweet,
“Loose me my brother from his conqueror's feet.
Oh loose my Gaul,—my race's hope alone!
For all but Fingal tremble at his frown.”
“Shall I (reply'd the King) thy suit deny,
Thou lovely daughter of the mountain high?
No, free thy brother take, and welcome go.
Sweet Minvane! fairer than the northern snow.”
Her polish'd neck and rising breasts of snow;
Fair, as the spirits of the hill appear
When from the cliffs they charm the list'ning ear;
Or when to view, light as the morning's breath,
At silent noon they glide along the heath;
Fair as the arch o'er heav'n's wide dome displayed,
So fair came Minvane the delightful maid.
“Fingal,” she softly said in accents sweet,
“Loose me my brother from his conqueror's feet.
Oh loose my Gaul,—my race's hope alone!
For all but Fingal tremble at his frown.”
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Thou lovely daughter of the mountain high?
No, free thy brother take, and welcome go.
Sweet Minvane! fairer than the northern snow.”
‘Such, Fingal, were thy words, sweet in my ear,
But now no more shall I these accents hear;
To wail my friends, and mourn their hapless doom,
Here sit I, sightless, by the dreary tomb;
Wild thro' the wood I hear the tempest roar,
But see my friends and hear their voice no more;
Ceas'd is the cry of hunters from afar,
And hush'd, for ever, the loud voice of War.’
But now no more shall I these accents hear;
To wail my friends, and mourn their hapless doom,
Here sit I, sightless, by the dreary tomb;
Wild thro' the wood I hear the tempest roar,
But see my friends and hear their voice no more;
Ceas'd is the cry of hunters from afar,
And hush'd, for ever, the loud voice of War.’
| The poems and literary prose of Alexander Wilson | |