The Poems of Ossian, the Son of Fingal

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Chapman and Lang, 1799
 

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Page 55 - 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. Red through the stony vale comes down the stream of the hill. Sweet are thy murmurs, O stream! but more sweet is the voice I hear. It is the voice of Alpin, the son of song, mourning for the dead!
Page 58 - The oar is stopped at once; he panted on the rock and expired. What is thy grief, O Daura, when round thy feet is poured thy brother's blood!
Page 16 - Exult, then, O sun, in the strength of thy youth ! Age is dark and unlovely ; it is like the glimmering light of the moon when it shines through broken clouds, and the mist is on the hills : the blast of the north is on the plain ; the traveller shrinks in the midst of his journey.
Page 6 - A TALE of the times of old ! The deeds of days of other years ! The murmur of thy streams, O Lora, brings back the memory of the past. The sound of thy woods, Garmallar, is lovely in mine ear. Dost thou not behold, Malvina, a rock with its head of heath ? Three aged pines bend from its face; green is the narrow plain at its feet ; there the flower of the mountain...
Page 92 - I hear the breeze of Cona, that was wont to lift thy heavy locks. It comes to the hall, but thou art not there. Its voice is mournful among the arms of thy fathers ! Go, with thy rustling wing, O breeze ! sigh on Malvina's tomb.
Page 55 - Alpin, thou son of song, why alone on the silent hill ? why complainest thou, as a blast in the wood ? as a wave on the lonely shore ? Alpin.
Page 53 - 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 ! Rise, moon!
Page 55 - But when thou didst return from war, how peaceful was thy brow! Thy face was like the sun after rain; like the moon in the silence of night; calm as the breast of the lake when the loud wind is laid.
Page 181 - 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 11 - The tear starts from their mother's eye ; her thoughts are of him who sleeps in Morven." Such were the words of the king when Ullin came to the mighty Carthon. He threw down...

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