The Poems of Ossian, Volume 1

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W. Strahan; and T. Cadell, 1784 - Celts
 

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The authenticity of Macpherson’s collection was already controversially judged, when it came, translated in several European languages, to the continent. The author was said having written the poems ... Read full review

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Page 211 - Thou hast no mother to mourn thee, no maid with her tears of love. Dead is she that brought thee forth. Fallen is the daughter of Morglan.
Page 211 - Narrow is thy dwelling now! dark the place of thine abode! With three steps I compass thy grave, O thou who wast so great before. Four stones, with their heads of moss, are the only memorial of thee. A tree with scarce a leaf, long grass which whistles in the wind, 'mark to the hunter's eye the grave of the mighty Morar.
Page 210 - RYNO The wind and the rain are past: calm is the noon of day. The clouds are divided in heaven. Over the green hills flies the inconstant sun.
Page 246 - He fell by the hand of Swaran, striving in the battle of heroes. His face is like the beam of the setting moon. His robes are of the clouds of the hill. His eyes are two decaying flames! Dark is the wound of his breast! 'Crugal,' said the mighty Connal, 'son of Dedgal famed on the hill of hinds!
Page 370 - ... of my fathers ! bend. Lay by the red terror of your course. Receive the falling chief; whether he comes from a distant land, or rises from the rolling sea. Let his robe of mist be near ; his spear that is form'd of a cloud.
Page 99 - Light of the shadowy thoughts that fly across my soul, daughter of Toscar of helmets, wilt thou not hear the song? We call back, maid of Lutha, the years that have rolled away...
Page 205 - And it does arise in its strength! I behold my departed friends. Their gathering is on Lora, as in the days of other years.
Page 226 - Rossa! what shades the soul of war?" "Four stones," replied the chief, "rise on the grave of Cathba. These hands have laid in earth Duchomar, that cloud in war. Cathba, son of Torman ! thou wert a sunbeam in Erin. And thou, O valiant Duchomar! a mist of the marshy Lano, when it moves on the plains of autumn, bearing the death of thousands along.
Page 207 - Colma. — It is night; I am alone, forlorn on the hill of storms. The wind is heard in the mountain. The torrent pours' down the rock. No hut receives me from the rain ; forlorn on the hill of winds...
Page 215 - Before morning appeared, her voice was weak. It died away, like the evening breeze among the grass of the rocks. Spent with grief she expired; and left thee Armin alone.

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