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"Why Ossian Son of Fingal art thou sad? Long, long have fled the chiefs of other times. The sons of future times shall pass away, Another race shall rise.

"All men are like the dark and rolling waves, Like leaves dispers'd before the rising wind, Ev'n Fingal's footsteps are no longer heard Within his airy hall.

"Thy voice, O Son of Fingal, has been heard. The harp of Selma was not strung in vain, Thy tale is told. Come Ossian, come away And meet me in the clouds."

And come I will, my father, king of men! My spear is weak. The life of Ossian fails. My steps no more are seen on Selma's plains, Or Crona's mournful flood.

On Mora's stone shall Ossian fall asleep, And give his gray-locks to the winds of night. Sleep seals my eyes....the night is long and dark, But all his storms shall not disturb my rest.

ADDRESS TO HOPE.

Spem retine: spes una bominem nec morte relinquit.

CATO'S DISTICHS,

Grasp Hope: Hope e'en in death forsakes not man.

DEJECTION shades the face of day

Each golden vision fades away.

No more the balmy-breathing spring
Wafts health and transport on her wing;
No more with joy I spend the hours
And slumber in Arcadian bowers;
No more along the gladsome plain
I frolick with the piping swain ;
Nor wandering by the stealing wave
Call sportive echo from her cave:

Descends the night with all its gloom
And horror beckons from the tomb.
My days in museful darkness roll
And clouds sit heavy on my soul.

Ye hours of joy where are ye fled,

Ye airy sports which crown'd my head?
Why comes not peace with grey-ey'd morn
Nor when pale Cynthia fills her horn?
Why do my wanderings shun the light
And court the fairy-footed night?

Say flattering Hope where wanderest thou,
Where hast thou made thy dwelling now?
Dost thou with care-worn monarchs dwell
Or sleep'st thou in the Hermit's cell?
Or dost thou seek the Peasant's shed
To bless his crust to bless his bed?
Or dost thou o'er the Sailor boy
Wave thy light wings in wanton joy;
And when he climbs the top-mast high
Dart searching rapture from his eye?

r dost thou warm the Lover's breast And lull his busy thoughts to rest;

Present before his eager view
His chosen maid in colours true,

And whisper to his listening ear,

Mourn not fond youth, cease every tear,
Dispel your sorrows and alarms

Anna shall meet your circling arms?

Wher'e'er thou art Hope hither come And make with me thy happy home, Come with thy blue enraptur'd eye

Which spurns the earth but loves the sky,
Come with thy robes of silver hue
With sandals bath'd in morning dew,
With hair all streaming in the gale
With steps that scarcely kiss the vale,
Come and bring with thee along
Laughter, and Sport and merry Song,
Such as most loves the Shepherd's reed
While graze his flocks the fragrant mead;
Come with thy fanning wings thro' air,
And banish hence the fiend Despair:

Let thy mild voice salute mine ear

And on thy bosom fall my tear. e

Those thoughts which love the grave, repress, And pillow on thine arms distress.

Gay Hope I know that cruel guile

Lurks in the magic of thy smile,

That thou oft whisperest peace to-morrow
To cheer the gloomy night of sorrow;

But when ascends the orb of day,

Thee and thy boon are flown away.

The wandering light which on the moor
Leads on the sad bewildered boor,

Thro' boggs and brakes and darksome dell
Where death and wakeful terrors dwell,
Is like thy fair entrancing form,

Which smiles to peace, but beckons storm.
O look upon that pathless wild!
Where mourns the aged man his child,
Son of his years, his only care,

For whom he breath'd his fervent prayer,

For whom he toil'd the busy day

Till age had torn his locks away.

Look on that lovely maid who lies

The victim of unceasing sighs....

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