Or, The beauties of Gaelic poetry

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Macgregor, Polson, & Company, 1841 - Poets, Gaelic - 376 pages
 

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Page 168 - And I saw a great white throne, and him that sat on it, from whose face the earth and the heaven fled away ; and there was found no place for them. And I saw the dead, small and great, stand before God : and the books were opened ; and another book was opened, which is the book of life : and the dead were judged out of those things which were written in the books, according to their works.
Page 339 - Though my perishing ranks should be strewed in their gore, Like ocean-weeds heaped on the surf-beaten shore, Lochiel, untainted by flight or by chains, While the kindling of life in his bosom remains, Shall victor exult, or in death be laid low, With his back to the field, and his feet to the foe ! And leaving in battle no blot on his name, Look proudly to heaven from the death-bed of fame.
Page lv - What then would it be reasonable to expect from the fanciful tribe, from the musicians and poets, of such a region ? Strains expressive of joy, tranquillity, or the softer passions ? No : their style must have been better suited to their circumstances. And so we find in fact that their music is. The wildest irregularity appears in its composition : the expression is warlike and melancholy, and approaches even to the terrible.
Page xl - ... cabin under his mantle, but used commonly to keep others waking to defend their lives, and did light his candle at the flames of their houses to lead him in...
Page lv - ... and lakes that intersect the country ; the portentous noises which every change of the wind and every increase and diminution of the waters is apt to raise in a lonely region, full of echoes, and rocks, and caverns ; the grotesque and ghastly appearance of such a landscape by the light of the moon — objects like these diffuse a gloom over the fancy...
Page 168 - Our revels now are ended : these our actors, As I foretold you, were all spirits, and Are melted into air, into thin air : And, like the baseless fabric of this vision, The cloud-capp'd towers, the gorgeous palaces, The solemn temples, the great globe itself, Yea, all which it inherits, shall dissolve, And, like this insubstantial pageant faded, Leave not a wreck behind ! We are such stuff As dreams are made of, and our little life Is rounded with a sleep.
Page xl - ... that the day was his night, and the night his day; that he loved not to be long wooing of wenches to yield to him; but, where he came, he took by force the spoil of...
Page lv - ... and diminution of the waters, is apt to raise, in a lonely region, full of echoes, and rocks, and caverns; the grotesque and ghastly appearance of such a landscape by the light of the moon:—- r Objects like these diffuse a gloom over the fancy...
Page lvi - I am alone at Lutha. My voice is like the last sound of the wind, when it forsakes the woods. But Ossian shall not be long alone. He sees the mist that shall receive his ghost. He beholds the mist that shall form his robe, when he appears on his hills. The sons of feeble men shall behold me, and admire the stature of the chiefs of old. They shall creep to their caves.
Page xl - Ireland, in the commendacyon and high praise of extortion, rebellyon, rape, raven, and outhere injustice, encourage those lords and gentlemen rather to follow those vices than to leave them.

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