Blair Collection > Celtic magazine > Volume 12

Correspondence. 381
CORRESPONDENCE.
"OSSIAN" MACPHERSON AND THE LAUREATESHIP.
TO THE EDITOR OF THE "CELTIC MAGAZINE."
Sir, — Since you sat in the editorial chair you are said to have crowned a new
bard of the Gaelic tongue and race. I never could understand Ossi an very much,
and all my life I cried tnea culpa in regard to my obtuseness, and yet I grudge to see
the wreath of white heatht-r taken off the marble brow of the blind grandson of
Cumhal. To have it placed on the head even of another of our language and race
does not seem compensation enough. Let us hope that the royal bard composed a
thousand poems and songs, which, although they may be now lost to us, may have
helped towards the education and enlightenment of our race. The ideal Ossian — if
you insist upon the term — was an apostle, and even if you slay him, Mr. Editor, his
ghost will unfold itself upon the mists of the past, and even of the future, and he will
whisper to generations unborn of the beauty of the women, whose love was the reward
of the heroes, who after war and chase feasted joyously in the hall of spears.
However, Mr. Editor, I find that Mr. James Macpherson declared himself a great
poet long ago. In the Edinburgh Magazine for 1785, his name appears in the list of
candidates for the office of Poet Laureate. The following is from the above, and is
given as his probationary poem : —
DUAN.
In the True Ossian Sublimity.
By Mr. Macpherson.
Does the wind touch thee, oh Harp,
Or is it some passing ghost ?
Is it thy hand,
Spirit of the departed scrutiny 1
Bring me the harp, pride of Chatham !
Snow is on thy bosom,
Maid of the modest eye !
A song shall rise !
Every soul shall depart at the sound ! ! !
The withered thistle shall crown my head ! ! ! !
I behold thee, oh King !
I behold thee sitting on mist.
Thy form is like a watery cloud
Singing in the deep like an oyster ! ! ! !
Thy face is like the beams of the setting moon.
Thy eyes are of two decaying flames !
Thy nose is like the spear of Rollo ! ! !
Thy ears are like three bossy shields.
Strangers shall rejoice at thy chin.
The ghosts of dead Tories shall hear me in their airy hall !
The withered thistle shall crown my head !
Bring me the harp,
Son of Chatham !
But thou, oh King, give me the launce !