THE

FAREWELL SONG

OF

OSSIAN.

The following Lines are an Attempt to throw into the measured Form of Poetry, a Part of the Poem of Berrathon.

LEAD

son of Alpin, lead me to the woods--Dark roll the waves; loud sweep the hollow winds; The leaves are scattered o'er the misty heath; No hunter's step is heard.

Bends not a tree o'er Mora's banks of moss, With naked branches whistling to the wind? There hangs my harp upon a blasted bough,

FAREWELL SONG OF OSSIAN.

Lead Son of Alpin, lead me to my harp, Another song shall rise from Ossian's hand; Amid the sound my spirit shall depart, And meet my fathers in their airy hall.

Be near ye winds, and bear upon your wings,
The dying strain to mighty Fingal's ear!
O let him hear his son's departing voice
Whose head is bow'd with years!

The aged oak that sighs with all its moss, The wither'd fern that hangs its head with mist, The ruin'd wall that shakes beneath the storm, Are like my faded form.

The night descends. No pale cold moon is seen, No red-star glimmering thro' the darkened cloud. The rain-drops rustle thro' the naked trees. And all is drear and dark.

At morning's dawn the hunter, as he treads These plains and mountains, in pursuit of deer, Will search for Ossian, and will find him cold And stretch'd upon the rock.

FAREWELL SONG OF OSSIAN.

He'll tear his hair---the tear will wet his cheek:

He'll weep o'er Ossian and his sleeping harp.

Son of the chace, then let my tomb arise,
On Lutha's lovely plain !

The Northern blasts unfold thy gates, O king!* And I behold thee gleaming in thy arms; Thy ghostly form is like a watery cloud Which dims the stars with tears.

Thy shield is like the old decaying moon,
Thy sword a vapour kindled into fire,

Thy steps, O chief! are on the desert-winds,
Thy hand can darken storms.

What murmur's that which comes upon my ear? The storm abates; and all the air is still--

Great Fingal's warning voice I hear, which says, "Come, Ossian, come away.

66

Fingal has had his fame. He pass'd away Like flames which fill'd and lighted all the world, Tho' dark and silent are our fields of war,

Our fame is on the four gray stones.

FAREWELL SONG OF OSSIAN.

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.