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0 blest are the Hearers, and proud be the Hand Of the pleasure it spreads through so thankful a
1 am glad for him, blind as he is! —all the while If they speak 'tis to praise, and they praise with a
That tall Man, a Giant in bulk and in height,
There's a Cripple who leans on his Crutch; like a Tower
A Mother, whose Spirit in fetters is bound,
Now, Coaches and Chariots! roar on like a stream;
While my Fellow-traveller and I were walking by the side of Loch Ketterine, one fine evening after sun-set, in our road to a Hut where in the course of our Tour we had been hospitably entertained some weeks before, we met, in one of the loneliest parts of that solitary region, two well-dressed Women, one of whom said to us, by way of greeting, "What you are stepping westward."
"What you are stepping westward?"—" Yea."
The dewy ground was dark and cold;
-And stepping westward seemed to be
The voice was soft, and she who spake
THE NARROW GLEN.
In this still place, remote from men,
Sleeps Ossian, in the Narrow Glen;
In this still place, where murmurs on
But one meek Streamlet, only one:
He sang of battles, and the breath
Of stormy war, and violent death;
And should, methinks, when all was past,
Have rightfully been laid at last
Where rocks were rudely heaped, and rent
As by a spirit turbulent;
Where sights were rough, and sounds were wild,
And every thing unreconciled;
In some complaining, dim retreat,
For fear and melancholy meet;
But this is calm; there cannot be
A more entire tranquillity. /
Does then the Bard sleep here indeed? Or is it but a groundless creed? What matters it ? — I blame them not Whose Fancy in this lonely Spot Was moved; and in this way expressed Their notion of its perfect rest. A Convent, even a hermit's Cell Would break the silence of this Dell: It is not quiet, is not ease; But something deeper far than these: The separation that is here Is of the grave; and of austere And happy feelings of the dead: And, therefore, was it rightly said That Ossian, last of all his race! Lies buried in this lonely place.