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To cheer the shiv'ring native's dull abode. And oft, beneath the od'rous shade

Of Chili's boundless forests laid,

60 She deigns to hear the savage youth repeat

In loose numbers wildly sweet

Their feather-cinctur'd chiefs, and dusky loves.
Her track, where'er the goddess roves,

Glory pursue, and generous Shame,

65 Th' unconquerable Mind, and Freedom's holy flame.

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Woods, that wave o'er Delphi's steep,
Isles, that crown th' Egean deep,
Fields, that cool Ilissus laves,

Or where Mæander's amber waves
In lingering lab'rinths creep,

How do your tuneful echoes languish, Mute, but to the voice of anguish? Where each old poetic mountain Inspiration breath'd around:

76 Ev'ry shade and hallow'd fountain Murmur'd deep a solemn sound:

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Till the sad Nine, in Greece's evil hour,

Left their Parnassus for the Latian plains. Alike they scorn the pomp of tyrant Power,

And coward Vice, that revels in her chains.

When Latium had her lofty spirit lost,

They sought, oh Albion! next thy sea-encircled coast.

III.

Far from the sun and summer-gale,

In thy green lap was Nature's darling laid,

85 What time, where lucid Avon stray'd,

To him the mighty mother did unveil

Her awful face: The dauntless child
Stretch'd forth his little arms, and smiled.
"This pencil take (she said), whose colours clear

90 Richly paint the vernal year:

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Thine too these golden keys, immortal boy!

This can unlock the gates of joy;

Of horror that, and thrilling fears,

Or ope the sacred source of sympathetic tears.'

Nor second he that rode sublime

Upon the seraph-wings of Ecstasy,

The secrets of th' abyss to spy.

He pass'd the flaming bounds of place and time: The living throne, the sapphire-blaze,

100 Where angels tremble, while they gaze,

He saw; but, blasted with excess of light,
Closed his eyes in endless night.

Behold, where Dryden's less presumptuous car
Wide o'er the fields of glory bear

105 Two coursers of ethereal race,

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With necks in thunder cloth'd, and long-resounding pace.

Hark, his hands the lyre explore!
Bright-eyed Fancy hov'ring o'er
Scatters from her pictur'd urn

Thoughts that breathe, and words that burn.
But ah! 'tis heard no more

Oh! Lyre divine, what daring spirit
Wakes thee now? Tho' he inherit

Nor the pride, nor ample pinion,

That the Theban eagle bear
Sailing with supreme dominion

Thro' the azure deep of air:

Yet oft before his infant eyes would run
Such forms as glitter in the Muse's ray,

120 With orient hues, unborrow'd of the sun:

Yet shall he mount, and keep his distant way

Beyond the limits of a vulgar fate,

Beneath the good how far but far above the great.

THE DESCENT OF ODIN.
[Comp. 1761-publ. 1768]

Uprose the King of men with speed, And saddled straight his coal-black steed;

Down the yawning steep he rode, That leads to Hela's drear abode. 5 Him the Dog of Darkness spied, His shaggy throat he opened wide, While from his jaws, with carnage filled, Foam and human gore distilled. Hoarse he bays with hideous din, 10 Eyes that glow, and fangs that grin; And long pursues, with fruitless yell, The Father of the powerful spell. Onward still his way he takes (The groaning earth beneath him shakes),

15 Till full before his fearless eyes The portals nine of hell arise.

Right against the eastern gate, By the moss-grown pile he sate;

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Odin. A traveller, to thee unknown,
Is he that calls, a warrior's son.
Thou the deeds of light shalt know;
40 Tell me what is done below,
For whom yon glitt'ring board is spread,
Drest for whom yon golden bed.

Pr. Mantling in the goblet see
The pure bev'rage of the bee;
45 O'er it hangs the shield of gold;
"Tis the drink of Balder bold:
Balder's head to death is giv'n.
Pain can reach the sons of Heav'n!
Unwilling I my lips unclose:
Leave me,

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leave me to repose.

Odin. Once again my call obey,
Prophetess, arise and say
What dangers Odin's child await,
Who the author of his fate.

Pr. In Hoder's hand the hero's
doom:
His brother sends him to the tomb.
Now my weary lips I close:
Leave me, leave me to repose.

Odin. Prophetess, my spell obey,
Once again arise and say
Who th' avenger of his guilt,
By whom shall Hoder's blood be spilt?
Pr. A wond'rous boy shall Rinda

bear,

Who ne'er shall comb his raven-hair,

Nor wash his visage in the stream, 65
Nor see the sun's departing beam,
Till he on Hoder's corse shall smile

Flaming on the fun'ral pile.
Now my weary lips I close:
Leave me, leave me to repose.

Odin. Yet awhile my call obey;
Prophetess, awake and say
What virgins these, in speechless woe,
That bend to earth their solemn brow,
That their flaxen tresses tear,
And snowy veils, that float in air.
Tell me whence their sorrows rose:
Then I leave thee to repose.

Pr. Ha! no traveller art thou,
King of men, I know thee now;
Mightiest of a mighty line

Odin. No boding maid of skill
divine

Art thou, nor prophetess of good,
But mother of the giant-brood!

Pr. Hie thee hence, and boast at
home,
That never shall inquirer come
To break my iron-sleep again,
Till Lok has burst his tenfold chain.
Never, till substantial Night
Has reassumed her ancient right;
Till, wrapt in flames, in ruin hurled,
Sinks the fabric of the world.

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JAM

JAMES MACPHERSON.

AMES MACPHERSON (1736-1796) was the son of a poor farmer at Ruthven in Inverness-shire. After studying at the Universities of Aberdeen and Edinburgh, he became schoolmaster and private tutor. In 1760 literary friends induced him to publish some Fragments of Ancient Poetry purporting to be collected in the Highlands and to be translated from the Gaelic language. This attracted so much notice, that a subscription was formed to enable Macpherson to travel in Scotland in search of more Gaelic poetry. The result of a year's researches was the production of two long prose epics, Fingal (1762) and Temora (1763), which professed to be translated from poems written by a Gaelic bard of the third century, Ossian, the son

of In 1764 went

Florida, as secretary to Governor Johnston, but returned in 1766. He now settled in London, was employed by government as a political writer, and, in 1781, was appointed agent to an Indian nabob. Having acquired a large fortune, he retired to his native parish, where he bought an estate and spent the last years of his life.

The publication of the Ossianic poems (1760-1763) at once gave rise to a controversy about their authenticity, which has not been quite settled up to this day. So much, however, may be safely asserted: the Gaelic text which was published after Macpherson's death in 1807 and which he claimed to be the original of his

English Ossian, though refusing to produce it, is probably a mere reconstruction from Macpherson's English; but, on the other hand, Macpherson had some knowledge of the genuine Ossianic ballad literature then existing in the Highlands, and borrowed from it names, themes, and incidents. After all it seems that the whole of Macpherson's Ossianic poems

must be said to be essentially of his own composition and invention. However this may be, the gloomy melancholy of tone, the wild grandeur of landscape scenery, and the abrupt rhapsodical style of Macpherson's Ossian fell in with the then prevailing mood of 'Wertherism', and accordingly exerted much influence on the romantic movement all through Europe.

THE SONGS OF SELMA. [From Fragments of Ancient Poetry (1760)]

Star of descending night! fair is thy light in the west! thou liftest thy unshorn head from thy cloud; thy steps are stately on thy hill. 6 What dost thou behold in the plain? The stormy winds are laid. The murmur of the torrent comes from afar. Roaring waves climb the distant rock. The flies of evening are 10 on their feeble wings; the hum of their course is on the field. What dost thou behold, fair light? But thou dost smile and depart. The waves come with joy around thee; 15 they bathe thy lovely hair. Farewell, thou silent beam! Let the light of Ossian's soul arise!

And it does arise in its strength! I behold my departed friends. Their 20 gathering is on Lora, as in the days of other years. Fingal comes like a watery column of mist; his heroes are around. And see the bards of song, grey-haired Ullin! stately Ryno! 25 Alpin with the tuneful voice! the soft complaint of Minona! How are ye changed, my friends, since the days of Selma's feast, when we contended, like gales of spring, as they 30 fly along the hill, and bend by turns the feebly whistling grass!

Minona came forth in her beauty, with down-cast look and tearful eye. Her hair flew slowly on the blast, 35 that rushed unfrequent from the hill. The souls of the heroes were sad when she raised the tuneful voice.

Often had they seen the grave of Salgar, the dark dwelling of whitebosomed Colma. Colma left alone 40 on the hill, with all her voice of song! Salgar promised to come; but the night descended around. Hear the voice of Colma, when she sat alone on the hill!

Colma.

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 50 me from the rain; forlorn on the hill of winds!

Rise, moon, from behind thy clouds! Stars of the night, arise! Lead me, some light, to the place where my 55 love rests from the chase alone! his bow near him, unstrung; his dogs. panting around him. But here I must sit alone, by the rock of the mossy stream. The stream and the 60 wind roar aloud. I hear not the voice of my love! Why delays my Salgar, why the chief of the hill, his promise? Here is the rock, and here the tree! here is the roaring 65 stream! Thou didst promise with night to be here. Ah! whither is my Salgar gone? With thee I would fly from my father; with thee, from my brother of pride. Our race have long 70 been foes; we are not foes, O Salgar!

Cease a little while, O wind! stream, be thou silent a while! let my voice

The

be heard around! Let my wanderer 75 hear me! Salgar, it is Colma who calls. Here is the tree, and the rock. Salgar, my love! I am here. Why delayest thou thy coming? Lo! the calm moon comes forth. 80 flood is bright in the vale. The rocks are grey on the steep. I see him not on the brow. His dogs come not before him, with tidings of his near approach. Here I must 85 sit alone!

Who lie on the heath beside me? Are they my love and my brother? Speak to me, O my friends! To Colma they give no reply. Speak 90 to me; I am alone! My soul is

tormented with fears! Ah! they are dead! Their swords are red from the fight. O my brother! my brother! why hast thou slain my Salgar? 95 why, O Salgar! hast thou slain my brother? Dear were ye both to me! What shall I say in your praise? Thou wert fair in the hill among thousands! he was terrible in fight. 100 Speak to me; hear my voice; hear me, sons of my love! They are silent, silent for ever! Cold, cold are their breasts of clay! Oh! from the rock on the hill, from the top of 105 the windy steep, speak, ye ghosts of the dead! speak, I will not be afraid! Whither are ye gone to rest? In what cave of the hill shall I find the departed? No feeble voice is on 110 the gale; no answer half-drowned in the storm!

I sit in my grief! I wait for morning in my tears! Rear the tomb, ye friends of the dead! Close 115 it not till Colma come. My life flies away like a dream; why should I stay behind? Here shall I rest with my friends, by the sounding rock. When night comes on the 120 hill, when the loud winds arise, my ghost shall stand in the blast, and mourn the death of my friends. The

hunter shall hear from his booth. He shall fear, but love my voice! For sweet shall my voice be for my 125 friends; pleasant were her friends to Colma!

Such was thy song, Minona, softly blushing daughter of Torman. Our tears descended for Colma, and our 180 souls were sad! Ullin came with his harp; he gave the song of Alpin. The voice of Alpin was pleasant; the soul of Ryno was a beam of fire! But they had rested in the narrow 185 house; their voice had ceased in Selma. Ullin had returned, one day, from the chase, before the heroes. fell. He heard their strife on the hill; their song was soft but sad! 140 They mourned the fall of Morar, first of mortal men! His soul was like the soul of Fingal; his sword like the sword of Oscar. But he fell, and his father mourned; his 145 sister's eyes were full of tears. Minona's eyes were full of tears, the sister of car-borne Morar. She retired from the song of Ullin, like the moon in the west, when she 150 foresees the shower, and hides her fair head in a cloud. I touched the harp with Ullin; the song of mourning rose!

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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 160 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! Bent 165 is his head of age; red his tearful eye. 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?

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