The Poems of Ossian

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Page 184 - O thou that rollest above, round as the shield of my fathers! Whence are thy beams, O sun! thy everlasting light? Thou comest forth, in thy awful beauty; the stars hide themselves in the sky; the moon, cold and pale, sinks in the western wave.
Page 342 - C. iUGHTER of heaven, fair art thou! the silence of thy face is pleasant! Thou comest forth in loveliness. The stars attend thy blue course in the east The clouds rejoice in thy presence, O moon!
Page 414 - Weep, thou father of Morar ! weep ; but thy son heareth thee not. Deep is the sleep of the dead ; low their pillow of dust. No more shall he hear thy voice ; no more awake at thy call. When shall it be morn in the grave, to bid the slumberer awake?
Page 411 - Colma come. My life flies away like a dream! why should I stay behind ? Here shall I rest with my friends, by the stream of the sounding rock.
Page 387 - A soliloquy by the poet himself. jjUR youth is like the dream of the hunter on the hill of heath. He sleeps in the mild beams of the sun; he awakes amidst a storm; the red lightning flies around: trees shake their heads to the wind! He looks back with joy, on the day of the sun; and the pleasant dreams of his rest!
Page 409 - Caledonians. of descending night! fair is thy light in the west ! thou liftest thy unshorn head from thy cloud : thy steps are stately on thy hill. What dost thou behold in the plain ? The stormy winds are laid. The murmur of the torrent comes from afar. Roaring waves climb the distant rock.
Page 172 - ... grows, and shakes its white head in the breeze. The thistle is there alone, shedding its aged beard.
Page 220 - The blue waves of Ullin roll in light; the green hills are covered with day; trees shake their dusky heads in the breeze.
Page 414 - The grief of all arose, but most the bursting sigh of Armin. He remembers the death of his son, who fell in the days of his youth. Carmor was near the hero, the chief of the echoing Galmal. Why burst the sigh of Armin?
Page 413 - Who on his staff is this? who is this, whose head is white with age? whose eyes are red with tears? who quakes at every step? It is thy father, O Morar! the father of no son but thee.

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