The poems of Ossian, tr. by J. Macpherson, Volume 1

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Page 93 - I have seen the walls of Balclutha, but they were desolate. The fire had resounded in the halls: and the voice of the people is heard no more. The stream of Clutha was removed from its place, by the fall of the walls. The thistle shook there its lonely head: the moss whistled to the wind. The fox looked out from the windows, the rank grass of the wall waved round its head. Desolate is the dwelling of Moina, silence is in the house of her fathers.
Page 152 - My fighs arife with the beam of the eaft, my tears defcend with " the drops of night. I was a lovely tree in thy prefence, Ofcar, " with all my branches round me; but thy death came like a " blaft from the defert, and laid my green head low : the fpring ** returned with its fhowers, but of me not a leaf fprung.
Page 111 - Exult, then, O sun, in the strength of thy youth ! Age is dark and unlovely ; it is like the glimmering light of the moon when it shines through broken clouds, and the mist is on the hills : the blast of the north is on the plain ; the traveller shrinks in the midst of his journey.
Page 66 - Returnest thou safe from the war? Where are thy friends, my love? I heard of thy death on the hill; I heard and mourned thee, Shilric! Yes, my fair, I return; but I alone of my race. Thou shalt see them no more: their graves I raised on the plain.
Page 108 - Night came, the moon, from the east, looked on the mournful field: but still they stood, like a silent grove that lifts its head on Gormal, when the loud winds are laid, and dark autumn is on the plain. Three days they mourned above Carthon; on the fourth his father died.
Page 260 - Hark ! the whirlwind is in the wood ! A low murmur in the vale ! It is the mighty army of the dead returning from the air.
Page 126 - I tore an oak from its hill, and raised a flame on high. I bade my fathers to look down, from the clouds of their hall; for, at the fame of their race, they brighten in the wind. I took a stone from the stream, amidst the song of bards.
Page 79 - WHO cometh from the hill, like a cloud tinged with the beam of the weft ? Whofe voice is that, loud as the wind, but pleafant as the harp of Carryl ? It is my love in the light of fteel; but fad is his darkened brow.
Page 82 - Connal ! who recount thy fathers ? Thy family grew like an oak on the mountain, which meeteth the wind with its lofty head. But now it is torn from the earth.
Page 192 - Be thou near, to learn the song; future times shall hear of me ! The sons of the feeble hereafter will lift the voice on Cona ; and, looking up to the rocks, say, 'Here Ossian dwelt'.

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