"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 Descends the night with all its gloom Ye hours of joy where are ye fled, Ye airy sports which crown'd my head? Say flattering Hope where wanderest thou, r dost thou warm the Lover's breast And lull his busy thoughts to rest; Present before his eager view And whisper to his listening ear, Mourn not fond youth, cease every tear, 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, 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 But when ascends the orb of day, Thee and thy boon are flown away. The wandering light which on the moor Thro' boggs and brakes and darksome dell Which smiles to peace, but beckons storm. 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.... |