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ainnir anam authenticity bard bheinn Bishop Cameron Calmar caoin Cecidit certamen cheann chief chruaidh Chuir Chunnaic ciar circa clivo Comala còmhrag Connal cujus Cuthullin Duchomar Eirich ejus eorum erat Erin ex adverso faoin Farquharson féin Fingal Fionnghal flamen fonn Frothal fuaim fuit Gaelic ghaoith Ghluais gladio guth haud heroes Highland Society hill ille illi instar James Macpherson làimh laoch Lochlin Lodinis M. T. line Macpherson Macpherson's translation mall manu measg meum mhic mòr Morna nan lann nan speur nan tonn nan triath Nuair oiche original Gaelic Ossian's poems poems of Ossian poet poetry princeps quæ quod righ rock Scotland sgiath shleagh Sicut sine Sir John Sinclair spear sruth Starno sunt super suum Swaran sword t-sliabh talla tergum Thàinig thall thaobh thog thou Thuit treun tuar tuum undarum Venit
Page cxcv - 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 vi - ... long to be remembered, and the language formerly had nothing written. He has doubtless inserted names that circulate in popular stories, and may have translated some wandering ballads, if any can be found; and the names and some of the images being recollected, make an inaccurate auditor imagine, by the help of Caledonian bigotry, that he has formerly heard the whole.
Page cxxx - 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 cxxxiv - 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...
Page civ - I beheld their chief," says Moran, " tall as a glittering rock. His spear is a blasted pine; his shield the rising moon. He sat on the shore! like a cloud of mist on the silent hill! Many, chief of heroes! I said, many are our hands of war. Well art thou named the Mighty Man, but many mighty men are seen from Tura's windy walls.
Page clxiii - 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.
Page xxxiii - The Noble Lord, with his usual zeal for literature, proposed that Clach Ossian, which ignorance or malice had overturned, should be restored to its former place, and a further monument erected, with a suitable inscription. There was not then public spirit enough in Scotland, to raise the sum necessary for that purpose. It is to be hoped, however, that the time is not far distant, when that object will be accomplished. .3. Not only is the Caledonian title to Fingal and his heroes justified by the...
Page lxxxi - the greatest contempt and disdain for those who " thought him the fabricator of them. If there " was any person who asserted that Macpherson " had owned it to himself, even that would not " shake my faith, for I know him to be of a tem" per, when he was teased and fretted, to carry
Page cxxii - Is the son of Torman fallen?' said the wildly bursting voice of the maid. ' Is he fallen on his echoing hills, the youth with the breast of snow? the first in the chase of hinds? the foe of the strangers of ocean? Thou art dark to me, Duchomar! cruel is thine arm to Morna! Give me that sword, my foe ! I love the wandering blood of Cathba ! ' " He gave the sword to her tears.