 | Poems by Three Friends |  |
35
IMITATED FROM OSSIAN.
Let thy blue waters, lovely stream,
Round Lutha's silent valley bend,
Where sleeps at noon the bright sun-beam,
And green woods from their hills impend.
Round Lutha's silent valley bend,
Where sleeps at noon the bright sun-beam,
And green woods from their hills impend.
There o'er the solitary vale,
The thistle finds its stony tower,
And lightly sighs the fitful gale,
O'er Autumn's pale and joyless flower.
The thistle finds its stony tower,
And lightly sighs the fitful gale,
O'er Autumn's pale and joyless flower.
“Why wak'st thou me?” it seems to say;
“Bending beneath the drops of heaven,
“Soon will my green leaves fade away,
“Soon on the whirling blast be driven.
“Bending beneath the drops of heaven,
“Soon will my green leaves fade away,
“Soon on the whirling blast be driven.
36
“To-morrow shall the wanderer come,
“He that beheld me rising fair,
“Wide will his seeking footsteps roam,
“But I no longer blossom there.”
“He that beheld me rising fair,
“Wide will his seeking footsteps roam,
“But I no longer blossom there.”
So shall they search for me in vain,
When hushed is that melodious voice,
Which stole across the listening plain,
And bade the echoing hills rejoice.
When hushed is that melodious voice,
Which stole across the listening plain,
And bade the echoing hills rejoice.
At morn, his forest shades among,
The hunter from the chase shall linger;—
But Ossian's lyre is all unstrung,
Nor longer owns his minstrel finger.
The hunter from the chase shall linger;—
But Ossian's lyre is all unstrung,
Nor longer owns his minstrel finger.
But soft! methinks I hear him speak—
“Where does the son of Fingal rest?”
A starting tear is on his cheek,
A sigh is struggling in his breast.
“Where does the son of Fingal rest?”
A starting tear is on his cheek,
A sigh is struggling in his breast.
37
I hear my Father's spirit call!
He seems to chide my lingering stay;
The blast unfolds his airy hall;—
“Come, aged Ossian, come away.”
He seems to chide my lingering stay;
The blast unfolds his airy hall;—
“Come, aged Ossian, come away.”
My course is run—my spirit fails—
Thy soothing harp Malvina bring,
And guide my steps to Lutha's vales,
Where the blue wave is murmuring!
Thy soothing harp Malvina bring,
And guide my steps to Lutha's vales,
Where the blue wave is murmuring!
Lay me beneath the beechen tree,
The spot where purple heath-flowers bloom,
That there the vagrant mountain-bee
May murmur round my silent tomb.
The spot where purple heath-flowers bloom,
That there the vagrant mountain-bee
May murmur round my silent tomb.
| Poems by Three Friends | |