the foe had failed. Ton-thormod turned his face away, from Oina-morul of isles! "Son of Fingal," begun Mal-orchol, "not forgot shalt thou pass from me. A light shall dwell in thy ship, Oina-morul of slow-rolling eyes. She shall kindle gladness, along thy mighty soul. Nor unheeded shall the maid move in Selma, through the dwelling of kings!" In the hall I lay in night. Mine eyes were half-closed in sleep. Soft music came to mine ear: it was like the rising breeze, that whirls, at first, the thistle's beard; then flies, dark-shadowy, over the grass ". It was the maid of Fuärfed wild! she raised the nightly song; she. knew that my soul was a stream, that flowed at pleasant sounds. "Who looks," she said, "from his rock, on ocean's closing mist? His long locks, like the raven's wing, are wandering on 6 Like the rising breeze, that whirls, at first, the thistle's beard; then flies, dark-shadowy, over the grass.] THOMSON'S Summer. A fresher gale Sweeping with shadowy gust the fields of corn- A whitening shower of vegetable down Amusive floats. the blast. Stately are his steps in grief! The tears are in his eyes! His manly breast is heaving over his bursting soul! Retire, I am distant far; a wanderer in lands unknown. Though the race of kings are around me, yet my soul is dark. Why have our fathers. been foes, Tonthormod, love of maids!" "Soft voice of the streamy isle," I said, “why dost thou mourn by night? The race of daring Trenmor are not the dark in soul. Thou shalt not wander, by streams unknown, blue-eyed Oina-morul! Within this bosom is a voice; it comes not to other ears: it bids Ossian hear the hapless, in their hour of woe". Retire, soft singer by night; Ton-thormod shall not mourn on his rock!" With morning I loosed the king. I gave the long-haired maid. Mal-orchol heard my words, in the midst of his echoing halls. "King of Fuärfed wild, why should Ton-thormod mourn? He is of the race of heroes, and a flame in war. 7 Within this bosom is a voice; it comes not to other ears: it bids Ossian hear the hapless, in their hour of woe.] Temora, ii. 24. From POPE, 1 Epist. Hor. lib. i. A voice there is that whispers in my ear, 'Tis reason's voice, which sometimes one can hear. Your fathers have been foes, but now their dim ghosts rejoice in death. They stretch their hands of mist to the same shell in Loda. Forget their rage, ye warriors, it was the cloud of other years." Such were the deeds of Ossian, while yet his locks were young: though loveliness, with a robe of beams, clothed the daughter of many isles. We call back, maid of Lutha, the years that have rolled away! |