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THE SONGS OF SELMA 417
house, and no bard shall raise his fame ! Roll on, ye
dark-brown years ; ye bring no joy on your course !
Let the tomb open to Ossian, for his strength has
failed. The sons of song are gone to rest. My voice
remains, like a blast, that roars, lonely, on a sea-
surrounded rock, after the winds are laid. The dark
moss whistles there ; the distant mariner sees the
waving trees!

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