"Why Ossian Son of Fingal art thou sad? Long, long have fled the chiefs of other times. The sons of future times shall pass away, Another race shall rise.

"All men are like the dark and rolling waves, Like leaves dispers'd before the rising wind, Ev'n Fingal's footsteps are no longer heard Within his airy hall.

"Thy voice, O Son of Fingal, has been heard. The harp of Selma was not strung in vain, Thy tale is told. Come Ossian, come away And meet me in the clouds."

And come I will, my father, king of men!
My spear is weak. The life of Ossian fails.
My steps no more are seen on Selma's plains,
Or Crona's mournful flood.

On Mora's stone shall Ossian fall asleep, And give his gray-locks to the winds of night. Sleep seals my eyes-the night is long and dark, But all his storms shall not disturb

my rest.

MAD MARY.

I PAUS'D to hear a wild and plaintive strain, Which rose complaining on the evening breeze, "Ah! 'tis poor Mary," said a passing swain,

"Nightly she sings beneath those darksome trees.

"Once she was gladsome, and the fairest maid,
That ever bless'd or trod our rural plain;
But by a villain Mary was betray'd;

She never laugh'd-she never smil'd again.

"Sad, ruin'd maid, she loves to be alone,
She flies and hides her sorrow in the wood,
That there unnotic'd she may pour her moan,

And give indulgence to her wayward mood.

"Oft have I seen her climb the hillock's height,

And sit and murmur o'er the brawling stream, Oft have I seen her at the dead of night,

Rove wet with dew and watch the moon's pale beam.

"I've seen her with a willow bind her head,

And twine her robe of white with wreaths of

green,

Ah! Sir I fear that Mary's wits have fled

So chang'd is she, from what she once has been."

The Swain pass'd on-Excited by his tale,
I stood and listen'd to Mad Mary's lay:
Her accents wafted on the mournful gale,
Were these; I wrote them by the lunar ray.

"Henry has left me-left me all alone,

Left me to struggle in this world of woe ; His heart was harder than this mossy stone, His love was colder than the winter's snow.

"Poor Mary's sad. The world cares not for me.
A crazy bark I am, toss'd by the wave.
My cruel Henry whither dost thou flee?
Return and weep o'er Mary's early grave.

"Once I was fair, for Henry told me so;

The village clowns turn'd after me and gaz’d; But now their. fingers mock me as I go,

They pity me, and say that I am craz'd.

"Perhaps 'tis so-and why should I complain?
These tatter'd garments and this tangled hair,
An eye that rolls in wildness and in pain,
May well to all, a phrenzied state declare.

Far from the hated world, then let me fly,
Throw o'er me woods your deep and friendly

shade,

Expose me not to man's insulting eye,

And let no footstep on my haunts invade!

"Ye dews of Night descend upon my breast, And quench its raging and consuming flame! Come lingering death and give poor Mary rest, In thy embraces let me hide my shame!"

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