Ossian Collection > Ossian, his principal poems

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Narmon, you ask the story of my \T0er3,
What rends ray bosom, whence my anguish flows,
Why glooms oppressive darken in my eyes,
Roll the slow hours, and blast them as they rise ?
Oh ! I'm steep'd in guilt, I'm bathed in blood,
Despair pours o'er me in a black'ning flood !
Morna I lov'd, — ]Morna, the beauteous maid,
With equal fondness all my love repaid.
Her voice was softer than the morning gale,
That sweeps with tardy step the deep'ning vale ;
Her breath was sweeter than the breath of flowera,
When all their scents are waken'd by the showers ;
The blue that trembles through the whitening sky,
Such melting blue roll'd liquid in her eye ;
Her smile was genial as the wish'd-for spring,
When blow the blossoms, and the gay birds sing ;
And yet I kill'd her ! — hide me, mountains, hide,
Or plunge me in a never ebbing tide !