Ossian Collection > Ossian, his principal poems

THE BARD'S FAEEWELL TO PUS HARP.
Alas ! my harp, thy notes are dead,
The magic of thy sound is fled,
And sear'd by early grief;
The heart that bade thesa notes awake,
The heart that lov'd them, — could it break,
Would find a blest relief.
The touch of an untutor'd hand.
The stroke of time, which none withstand,
Hath niarr'd thy tuneful sound;
But o'er thy minsti-el's hapless fate,
Time presses with a deadlier weight.
And bears him to the ground !
The soul of song that warm'd his lay.
Fades as the rosy light of day
Sinks into evening gloom ;
Day's slumb'ring light may wake again,
But nought shall wake the dying strain
That echoes from the tomb !