Ossian Collection > Ossian, his principal poems

THE SOXGS OF SELMA. 285
Loud was the wind, and on the mountain's side,
Hard beat the rain, hard beat the foaming tide.
I heard at last her trembling voice decay,
A.S winds 'mid mountain grass, it died away !
O'ercome with grief, my Daura breathed her last ;
Thee Armin left Avith clouds of woe o'ercast.
When come the mountain storms, when tempests fly,
When the fierce north wind lifts the wave on high,
I sadly sit upon the sounding shore,
I view the rock, and hear the sea's wild roar ;
The direful prospect feeds my troubled soul,
Still gush my tears, still fierce my eyeballs roll.
Oft by the setting moon I see the dead ;
Pale rise their ghosts, — I think I hear their tread ;
Half Aiewless they together seem to walk,
They seem in mournful conference to talk ;
Will none of you this stubborn silence break ?
In pity to a drooping father, speak.
Sad ! 1 am sad indeed, my tears still flow ;
Years linger on, nor small my cause of woe.
Such were the words of the bards in the days of song ;
when the king heard the music of harps, and the tales of
other times. The chiefs gathered from all their hills, and
heard the lovely sound. They praised the voice of Cona,
the first among a thousand bards. But age is now on my
tongue, and my soul has failed. I hear sometimes the
ghosts of bards, and learn their pleasant song. But memory
fails in my mind ; I hear the call of years. They say, as
they pass along, why does Ossian sing ? Soon shall he lie
in the narrow house, and no l)ard shall raise his fame. Roll
on, ye dark brown years, for ye bring no joy on your course.