The Poems of Ossian: &c, Том 2J. Ballantyne, 1805 |
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Сторінка 18
... behold his flying fame . The steps of his chiefs will cease in Morven . The moss of years shall grow in Selma . " Cairbar heard their words , in silence , like the cloud of a shower : it stands dark on Cromla , till the lightning bursts ...
... behold his flying fame . The steps of his chiefs will cease in Morven . The moss of years shall grow in Selma . " Cairbar heard their words , in silence , like the cloud of a shower : it stands dark on Cromla , till the lightning bursts ...
Сторінка 22
... behold the spear of Erin . The spear of Temora glitters in thy hand , son of woody Morven ! It was the pride of an hundred kings . The death of heroes of old . Yield it , son of Ossian , yield it to car- borne Cairbar ! " " Shall I ...
... behold the spear of Erin . The spear of Temora glitters in thy hand , son of woody Morven ! It was the pride of an hundred kings . The death of heroes of old . Yield it , son of Ossian , yield it to car- borne Cairbar ! " " Shall I ...
Сторінка 24
... Behold they fall before my son , like groves in the desert ; when an angry ghost rushes through " The trembling joy of Oscar's soul . ] Gray's trembling hope , and fearful joy , are here united . In the Elegy ; There they alike in ...
... Behold they fall before my son , like groves in the desert ; when an angry ghost rushes through " The trembling joy of Oscar's soul . ] Gray's trembling hope , and fearful joy , are here united . In the Elegy ; There they alike in ...
Сторінка 37
... behold my father ? Heavy is the sword of the king ; surely his arm was strong . O that I were like him in battle , when the rage of his wrath arose ! then would I have met , with Cuthullin , the car - borne son of Cantéla ! But years ...
... behold my father ? Heavy is the sword of the king ; surely his arm was strong . O that I were like him in battle , when the rage of his wrath arose ! then would I have met , with Cuthullin , the car - borne son of Cantéla ! But years ...
Сторінка 40
... behold him in thy halls , king of Te- mora of groves ! " " Soon may I behold the chief ! " replied the blue - eyed king . " But my soul is sad for Cuthul- lin . His voice was pleasant in mine ear . Often have we moved , on Dora , to the ...
... behold him in thy halls , king of Te- mora of groves ! " " Soon may I behold the chief ! " replied the blue - eyed king . " But my soul is sad for Cuthul- lin . His voice was pleasant in mine ear . Often have we moved , on Dora , to the ...
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aislin Alpin arms art thou Atha bards battle beam behold bends beneath blast blood bosom breast brow Cairbar Cathmor chief Clatho Clono cloud Cormac Dargo dark daughter death Dermid descend Earse echoing EPIC POEM Erin eyes fair fall fame father feast fell field Fillan Fingal Firbolg fire flies Foldath Gaul ghosts gleaming grey hall harp head hear heard heath heaven hero hill hunter Iliad king Lego light locks Loda look Lumon MACPHERSON maid midst mighty mist Moi-lena moon Morven mountains mournful night numbers o'er Oscar Ossian plain poem POPE's race rise roar rock roes rolled rose round rush sable Selma shield side sighs silent Somerled song soul sound spear sruth starry plough steel stood storm stream strife Sul-malla sword tears Temora thee thou Thuit tomb tree trembling Trenmor vale voice warrior waves winds wing youth
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Сторінка 437 - For, lo, the winter is past, the rain is over and gone. The flowers appear on the earth ; the time of the singing of birds is come, and the voice of the turtle is heard in our land. The fig tree putteth forth her green figs, and the vines with the tender grape give a good smell. Arise, my love, my fair one, and come away.
Сторінка 437 - SING unto the Lord a new song: sing unto the Lord, all the earth. Sing unto the Lord, bless his name ; shew forth his salvation from day to day. Declare his glory among the heathen, his wonders among all people. For the Lord is great, and greatly to be praised : he is to be feared above all gods.
Сторінка 248 - customed hill, Along the heath and near his favourite tree; Another came; nor yet beside the rill, Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he : The next with dirges due in sad array Slow through the church-way path we saw him borne. Approach and read (for thou canst read) the lay, Graved on the stone beneath yon aged thorn.
Сторінка 423 - Did you never observe (while rocking winds are piping loud) that pause, as the gust is recollecting itself, and rising upon the ear in a shrill and plaintive note, like the swell of an ^Eolian harp ? I do assure you there is nothing in the world so like the voice of a spirit.
Сторінка 259 - Awake, /Eolian lyre, awake, And give to rapture all thy trembling strings. From Helicon's harmonious springs A thousand rills their mazy progress take ; The laughing flowers, that round them blow, Drink life and fragrance as they flow. Now the rich stream of music winds along, Deep, majestic, smooth, and strong, Through verdant vales, and Ceres...
Сторінка 132 - Thus with the year Seasons return, but not to me returns Day, or the sweet approach of even or morn, Or sight of vernal bloom, or summer's rose, Or flocks, or herds, or human face divine; But cloud instead, and ever-during dark Surrounds me...
Сторінка 200 - If I forget thee, O Jerusalem, let my right hand forget her cunning. If I do not remember thee, let my tongue cleave to the roof of my mouth; if I prefer not Jerusalem above my chief joy.
Сторінка 71 - Of gathering vapour, from the baffled sense Sinks dark and dreary. Thence expanding far, The huge dusk, gradual, swallows up the plain : Vanish the woods ; the dim-seen river seems Sullen, and slow, to roll the misty wave.
Сторінка 355 - Whose midnight revels by a forest side Or fountain some belated peasant sees, Or dreams he sees, while overhead the moon Sits arbitress, and nearer to the earth Wheels her pale course ; they, on their mirth and dance Intent, with jocund music charm his ear; At once with joy and fear his heart rebounds.
Сторінка 405 - A tree with scarce a leaf, long grass which whistles in the wind, mark to the hunter's eye the grave of the mighty Morar. Morar! thou art low indeed. Thou hast no mother to mourn thee; no maid with her tears of love. Dead is she that brought thee forth. Fallen is the daughter of Morglan.