A Dissertation on the Authenticity of the Poems of Ossian

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W. Bulmer, 1806 - Scottish Gaelic poetry - 232 pages
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Page cxciii - WHEN Learning's triumph o'er her barbarous foes First rear'd the stage, immortal Shakespeare rose; Each change of many-colour'd life he drew, Exhausted worlds, and then imagin'd new: Existence saw him spurn her bounded reign, And panting Time toil'd after him in vain. His powerful strokes presiding truth impress'd, And unresisted passion storm'd the breast.
Page cxcvi - Helmets are cleft on high. Blood bursts and smokes around. Strings murmur on the polished yews. Darts rush along the sky, spears fall like the circles of light which gild the face of night.
Page cliii - Moran,' replied the blue-eyed chief, 'thou ever tremblest, son of Fithil ! thy fears have increased the foe. It is Fingal, king of deserts, with aid to green Erin of streams.
Page iii - The editor, or author, never could show the original ; nor can it be shown by any other; to revenge reasonable incredulity, by refusing evidence, is a degree of insolence, with which the world is not yet acquainted ; and stubborn audacity is the last refuge of guilt.
Page cxxxvi - Death raises all his voices around, and mixes with the sounds of shields. Each hero is a pillar of darkness ; the sword a beam of fire in his hand. The field echoes from wing to wing, as a hundred hammers that rise by turns on the red son of the furnace.
Page clxi - Duchomar was the dream of her night! She will raise my tomb; the hunter shall raise my fame. But draw the sword from my breast. Morna, the steel is cold!' She came, in all her tears, she came ; she drew the sword from his breast. He pierced her white side! He spread her fair locks on the ground ! Her bursting blood sounds from her side: her white arm is stained with red. Rolling in death she lay. The cave re-echoed to her sighs." "Peace," said Cuthullin, "to the souls of the heroes!
Page cxxviii - Thin thongs, bright-studded with gems, bend on the stately necks of the steeds. The steeds that like wreaths of mist fly over the streamy vales ! The wildness of deer is in their course, the strength of eagles descending on the prey. Their noise is like the blast of winter, on the sides of the snow-headed Gormal.
Page cviii - Cuthullin," calm the chief replied, "the spear of Connal is keen. It delights to shine in battle, to mix with the blood of thousands. But though my hand is bent on fight, my heart is for the peace of Erin. Behold, thou first in Cormac's war, the sable fleet of Swaran. His masts are many on our coast, like reeds in the Lake of Lego. His ships are forests clothed with mist, when the trees yield by turns to the squally wind.
Page cxcviii - Svaran la possa 460 così Erina incontrò. Schiude la morte tutte le fauci sue; tutte l'orrende sue voci inalza e le frammischia al suono dei rotti scudi: ogni guerriero è torre d'oscuritade, ed ogni spada è lampo.
Page cxxxii - Blood bursts and smokes around. Strings murmur on the polished yews. Darts rush along the sky. Spears fall like the circles of light, which gild the face of night. As the noise of the troubled ocean, when roll the waves on high. As the last peal of thunder in heaven, such is the din of war...

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