Ossian Collection > Ossian, his principal poems

THE SONGS OF SELMA. 281
These, and these only, guide the hunter's eye.
To iind where Morar's mould'ring relics lie.
How low is Morar fall'n ! alas ! how low !
No tears maternal o'er his ashes flow ;
No tender maid, to whom his heart he gave,
Sheds love's soft sorrows o'er his humble grave ;
Cold are the knees his infant weight that bore,
And Morglan's lovely daughter is no more.
But who, low bending o'er his staff, appears-,
Oppress'd at once with sorrow and with years ?
A few white hairs ai*e o'er bis temples spread.
His steps are feeble, and his eyes are red.
Thy sire, Morar, is the sage I see,
Thy sire, — alas ! the sire of none but thee.
He heard thy martial fame, supreme in fight,
Of daring foes he heard, dispers'd in flight :
Of Morar's fame he heard, — why heard he not
The wound, — the hero's death was Morar's lot ?
! sire of Morar, still thy son deplore ;
Weep on for ever, but he hears no more ;
Deep are the slumbers of the silent dead.
And low their pillow in the dust is spread.;
No more thy voice he hears with filial joy,
Thy call no more his slumbers can destroy.
When, in the grave, ah ! when shall morning break,
The cheerful morn that bids the skmib'rer w^ake I
Farewell I O first of men, untaught to yield.
Unrivall'd victor in the hostile field.
The hostile field thy voice no more alarms,
Nor the dark forest lightens with thy arms :