Fragments of ancient poetry, collected in the highlands of Scotland, and tr. [by J. Macpherson.].

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Page 55 - RYNO The wind and the rain are past: calm is the noon of day. The clouds are divided in heaven. Over the green hills flies the inconstant sun. Red through the stony vale comes down the stream of the hill. Sweet are thy murmurs, O stream! but more sweet is the voice I hear. It is the voice of Alpin, the son of song, mourning for the dead!
Page 57 - 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.
Page 24 - Warriors fell by thy fword, as the tbiftle by the ftaff of a boy. Dargo the mighty came on, like a cloud of thunder. His brows were contracted and dark. His eyes like two caves in a rock.
Page 23 - Autumn is dark on the mountains; grey mist rests on the hills. The whirlwind is heard on the heath. Dark rolls the river through the narrow plain. A tree stands alone on the hill, and marks the slumbering Connal. The leaves whirl round with the wind, and strew the grave of the dead.
Page 48 - Close it not till Colma come. My life flies away like a dream! why should I stay behind?
Page 39 - They threw their arms round each other; they struggled on the Plain. The Earth is Ploughed with their Heels. Their bones crack as the boat on the Ocean, when it leaps from wave to wave. Long did they toil; with night, they fell on the sounding Plain ; as two Oaks, with their branches mingled, fall crashing from the Hill.
Page 36 - She fell ; she trembled — and died. By the brook of the hill their graves are laid ; a birch's unequal shade covers their tomb. Often on their green earthen tombs the branchy sons of the mountain feed, when mid-day is all in flames, and silence is over all the hills.
Page 58 - Fame ; why did he not hear of his Wound ? Weep, thou Father of Morar ! weep ; but thy Son heareth thee not.
Page 26 - Son of the noble Fingal, Oscian, prince of men! what tears run down the cheeks of age? what shades thy mighty soul? Memory, son of Alpin, memory wounds the aged. Of former times are my thoughts; my thoughts are of the noble Fingal.
Page 23 - Thy family grew like an oak on the mountain, which meeteth the wind with its lofty head. But now it is torn from the earth.

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