The Works of Ossian, the Son of Fingal, Volume 4

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J.F. Valade, 1783 - Scottish Gaelic poetry

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Page 27 - Loose the bards," said his brother Cathmor, " they are the sons of other times. Their voice shall " be heard in other ages, when the kings of Temora
Page 71 - Rotha's bay received the ship. A rock bends along the coast with all its echoing wood. On the top is the circle* of Loda, the mossy stone of power!
Page 73 - As flies the inconstant sun, over Larmon's grassy hill, so pass the tales of old, along my soul, by night! When bards are removed to their place ; when harps are hung in Selma's hall; then comes a voice to Ossian, and awakes his soul! It is the voice of years that are gone ! they roll before me, with all their deeds! I seize the tales, as they pass, and pour them forth in song.
Page 129 - Clos'd o'er the head of your lov'd Lycidas? For neither were ye playing on the steep, Where your old Bards, the famous Druids, lie, Nor on the shaggy top of Mona high, Nor yet where Deva spreads her wizard stream: Ay me!
Page 92 - Whereas, a true poet makes us imagine that we see it before our eyes ; he catches the distinguishing features ; he gives it the colours of life and reality ; he places it in such a light that a painter could copy after him.
Page 66 - We rushed into roaring Urlor. With his people came tall Corman-trunar. We fought ; but the foe prevailed. In his wrath my father stood.
Page 94 - A thousand shields, at once, are placed on their arms; they drew a thousand swords. The hall of Selma brightened around. The clang of arms ascends. The grey dogs howl in their place. No word is among the mighty chiefs. Each marked the eyes of the king; and half assumed his spear. 'Sons of Morven,' begun the king, 'this is no time to fill the shell.
Page 123 - She " was covered with the Light of Beauty; but her " heart was the House of Pride.
Page 93 - I have seen the walls of Balclutha, but they were desolate. The fire had resounded in the halls: and the voice of the people is heard no more. The stream of Clutha was removed from its place, by the fall of the walls. The thistle shook there its lonely head: the moss whistled to the wind. The fox looked out from the windows, the rank grass of the wall waved round its head.
Page 42 - His poetry, more perhaps than that of any other writer, deserves to be styled, the poetry of the heart. It is a heart penetrated with noble sentiments, and with sublime and tender passions; a heart that glows, and kindles the fancy; a heart that is full, and pours itself forth.

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