The Harp of Ossian.
[_]
I have been sorely blamed by some friends for a sentiment
expressed in this song; but I have always felt it painfully
that the name of Scotland, the superior nation in everything
but wealth, should be lost, not in Britain, for that is proper,
but in England. In all despatches we are denominated the
English, forsooth! We know ourselves, however, that we are
not English, nor never intend to be.
Old harp of the Highlands, how long hast thou slumber'd
In cave of the correi, ungarnish'd, unstrung!
Thy minstrels no more with thy heroes are number'd,
Or deeds of thy heroes no more dare be sung.
A seer late heard, from thy cavern ascending,
A low sounding chime, as of sorrow and dole;
Some spirit unseen on the relic attending,
Thus sung the last strain of the warrior's soul:
“My country, farewell! for the days are expired
On which I could hallow the deeds of the free;
Thy heroes have all to new honours aspired,
They fight, but they fight not for Scotia nor me.
All lost is our sway, and the name of our nation
Is sunk in the name of our old mortal foe;
Then why should the lay of our last degradation
Be forced from the harp of old Ossian to flow?
“My country, farewell! for the murmurs of sorrow
Alone the dark mountains of Scotia become;
Her sons condescend from new models to borrow,
And voices of strangers prevail in the hum.
Before the smooth face of our Saxon invaders,
Is quench'd the last ray in the eye of the free;
Then, oh! let me rest in the caves of my fathers,
Forgetful of them as forgetful of thee!”
