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She goes upon the southern gale",

Where vent'rous prow ne'er cut the waves,
Where never rose the flutt'ring sail,
But ocean solitary raves.

Be thou, with snowy plumage soft,

O swan! not far from my repose;
Even when I see thee soar aloft,
Thy parting strain will sooth my woes.

Tell from what distant land the wind

Bears on its wings the sound of woe.
Sure 'tis his voice, who left behind
His Love, to trace the realm of snow.

Stream thy bright eyes, O virgin mild !

For him on Lochlin's stormy coast
Who perish'd ʼmidst the tempest wild,
To thee-to me--for ever lost !

The graceful youth, in manly bloom,

Who left my grey locks thus forlorn,
Far off to seek an early tomb,

Dost thou with social sorrow mourn ?

* See note No. 5.

† See note No. 6.

XXIII. Thy beauteous cheek; grown pale with grief,

Still leans upon thy hand of snow,
Still heaves thy bosom for the chief
Long in the narrow bed laid low.

O! be his mem'ry ever blest,

Bright be the clouds of his repose ;
Soon shall we share the hero's rest,
Soon life, and love, and sorrow close.

Rise thou, whose soft melodious song,

Pours on my heart the balm of ease;
Ye plaintive echoes come along,
And waft the notes, thou sighing breeze!

From ocean's breast, O gale, arise !

Bear on thy wings the dulcet strain,-
Bear it where high on clouds he lies,
Tell him he hears the fair complain.

Tell, ere thy strength be past, O wind !
Where weak in helpless age I lie,

Low on my rusty shield reclin'd,

And view his fair flow'r with’ring nigh.

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Lift me, O you, whose arms are young!

Lay me beneath yon broad oak's shade ;
For now the noon-day sun grows strong,
Let not his rays my eyes


Then wilt thou come, thou vision fair,

Oft mingled with the stars of night;
Scenes of my youth shall rise in air,
And times of manhood's active might.

Shew to my soul the lovely maid,

Beneath the oak, the forest's pride;
Her cheek let golden tresses shade,
Her lover, smiling, grace her side.

May endless joy their spirits wait,

And meteors waft th' enamour'd pair !
Blest be your souls, and blest thy fate,
Maid with the graceful locks so fair !

Leave not my soul, O dream of joy !

O turn again, once more return!
They hear me not—My darling boy!
For thee, for her, not long I mourn !


Now lay me close by yonder fall

That leaps in thunder o'er the rock;
My lyre and shell attend my call,
The spear my sires in battle shook.

And come whence ocean's waters roll,

Ye breezes mild that softly blow,
And bear away my parting soul
Where sinks the sun at evening low.

O bear me to the happy isles

Where shades of mighty heroes rest,
Who, sunk in sleep, forget their toils,
Or wake the music of the blest.

Blind Ossian's misty halls unfold :

Your eyes no more the bard shall view : Let me my harp and shell behold,

And now, dear harp and shell, adieu !




No. 1. P. 395. The first verse is so compressed in the original, that it is not possible to confine the sense in an equal number of English lines. The second has also some peculiar epithets that cannot be transfused into English in the same bounds. Thus it becomes necessary to give the sense of these two, in three English verses. This explanation is meant for the direction of such readers as may have the curiosity to compare this close and often literal translation with the corresponding verses of the original poem.

Betwixt the twelfth and fourteenth verses of the original are two highly figurative and poetical, but so much wrapt in the mist of local superstition, that they are difficult to understand or translate, and could only excite interest in minds to which the wild solemnity they breathe is in some degree familiar.

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