The Works of Ossian, the Son of Fingal, Volume 3

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J.F. Valade, 1779 - Scottish Gaelic poetry
 

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Page 25 - We must fight in Erin, for the race of fallen Cormac. The days of my years begin to fail. I feel the weakness of my arm.
Page 214 - But mine arm rescued the feeble; the haughty found my rage was fire. Never over the fallen did mine eye rejoice. For this my fathers shall meet me, at the gates of their airy halls, tall, with robes of light, with mildly-kindled eyes. But, to the proud in arms, they are darkened moons in heaven, which send the fire of night, red-wandering over their face.
Page 189 - I hear you not, ye sons of song; in what hall of the clouds is your rest? Do you touch the shadowy harp, robed with morning mist, where the rustling sun comes forth from his green-headed waves 1 TEMORA: AN EPIC POEM.
Page 198 - So rife the green feas round a fpirit, that comes down from the fqually wind. The traveller hears the found afar, and lifts his head over the rock. He looks on the troubled bay, and thinks he dimly fees the form. The waves fport, unwieldy, round, with all their backs of foam.
Page 26 - The feaft is fpread on Moi-lena: an hundred heroes reared the tomb of Cairbar: but no fong is raifed over the chief: for his foul had been dark and bloody. The bards remembered the fall of Cormac ! what could they fay in Cairbar's praife? The night came rolling down. The light of a"n hundred oaks arofe. Fingal fat beneath a tree. Old Althan f flood in the midft.
Page 187 - Not there is the stride of Larthon, chief of Inis-huna. He mounts the wave on his own dark oak, in Cluba's ridgy bay.
Page 195 - AS when the wintry winds have feized the waves of the mountain-lake, have feized them, in ftormy night, and cloathed them over with ice; white, to the hunter's early eye, the billows ftill feem to roll. He turns his ear to the found of each unequal ridge. But each is filent, gleaming...
Page 46 - WHEN peace returned to the land: •When his blue waves bore the king to Morven: then he remembered his fon, and poured the filenc tear.
Page 112 - ... impressions of the extraordinary and supernatural kind. Falling asleep in this gloomy mood, and their dreams being disturbed by the noise of the elements around, it is no matter of wonder, that they thought they heard the voice of the dead. This voice of the dead, however, was, perhaps, no more than a shriller whistle of the winds in an old tree, or in the chinks of a neighbouring rock.
Page 204 - He lifted high his shin;ng shield, in the dusky wing of war: like the broad, blank moon, in the skirt of a cloud, before the storms arise. Loud, from moss-covered Mora, poured down, at once, the broad-winged war. Fingal led his people forth, king of Morven of streams. On high spreads the eagle's wing. His grey hair is poured on his shoulders broad. In thunder are his mighty strides.

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