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While a dark storm before my sight

Was yielding, on a mountain height

Loose vapors

have I watched, that won

Prismatic colors from the sun;

Nor felt a wish that heaven would show

The image of its perfect bow.

What need, then, of these finished Strains?

Away with counterfeit Remains!

An abbey in its lone recess,

A temple of the wilderness,

Wrecks though they be, announce with feeling

The majesty of honest dealing.

Spirit of Ossian ! if imbound

In language thou mayst yet be found,

If aught (intrusted to the pen

Or floating on the tongues of men,
Albeit shattered and impaired)
Subsist thy dignity to guard,

In concert with memorial claim

Of old gray stone, and high-born name

That cleaves to rock or pillared cave

Where moans the blast or beats the wave,
Let Truth, stern arbitress of all,
Interpret that Original,

And for presumptuous wrongs atone;
Authentic words be given, or none !

Time is not blind; - yet he, who spares
Pyramid pointing to the stars,

Hath preyed with ruthless appetite

On all that marked the primal flight

Of the poetic ecstasy

Into the land of mystery.

No tongue is able to rehearse

One measure, Orpheus! of thy verse;
Musæus, stationed with his lyre
Supreme among the Elysian choir,
Is, for the dwellers upon earth,
Mute as a lark ere morning's birth.
Why grieve for these, though past away
The music, and extinct the lay?
When thousands, by severer doom,
Full early to the silent tomb

Have sunk, at Nature's call; or strayed
From hope and promise, self-betrayed;
The garland withering on their brows;
Stung with remorse for broken vows;
Frantic, else how might they rejoice?
And friendless, by their own sad choice!

Hail, Bards of mightier grasp! on you
I chiefly call, the chosen Few,
Who cast not off the acknowledged guide,
Who faltered not, nor turned aside;
Whose lofty genius could survive
Privation, under sorrow thrive;
In whom the fiery Muse revered
The symbol of a snow-white beard,
Bedewed with meditative tears

Dropped from the lenient cloud of years.

Brothers in soul! though distant times
Produced you nursed in various climes,
Ye, when the orb of life had waned,
A plenitude of love retained:
Hence, while in you each sad regret
By corresponding hope was met,
Ye lingered among human kind,
Sweet voices for the passing wind;
Departing sunbeams, loth to stop,
Though smiling on the last hill-top!
Such to the tender-hearted maid
Even ere her joys begin to fade,
Such, haply, to the rugged chief
By fortune crushed, or tamed by grief,
Appears, on Morven's lonely shore,
Dim-gleaming through imperfect lore,
The Son of Fingal; such was blind
Mæonides of ampler mind;
Such Milton, to the fountain-head
Of glory by Urania led!



WE saw, but surely, in the motley crowd,
Not one of us has felt the far-famed sight;

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How could we feel it? each the other's blight,
Hurried and hurrying, volatile and loud.
O for those motions only that invite
The Ghost of Fingal to his tuneful Cave
By the breeze entered, and wave after wave
Softly embosoming the timid light!

And by one Votary, who at will might stand
Gazing, and take into his mind and heart,
With undistracted reverence, the effect
Of those proportions where the almighty hand
That made the worlds, the sovereign Architect,
Has deigned to work as if with human Art!

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For the presumptuous thoughts that would assign Mechanic laws to agency divine;

And, measuring heaven by earth, would overrule Infinite Power. The pillared vestibule,

Expanding yet precise, the roof embowed,

Might seem designed to humble man, when proud
Of his best workmanship by plan and tool.
Down-bearing with his whole Atlantic weight
Of tide and tempest on that Structure's base,
And flashing to that Structure's topmost height,
Ocean has proved its strength, and of its grace

In calms is conscious, finding for his freight
Of softest music some responsive place.



YE shadowy Beings, that have rights and claims
In every cell of Fingal's mystic Grot,

Where are ye? Driven or venturing to the spot,
Our fathers glimpses caught of your thin Frames,
And, by your mien and bearing, knew your names;
And they could hear his ghostly song who trod
Earth, till the flesh lay on him like a load,
While he struck his desolate harp without hopes
or aims.

Vanished ye are, but subject to recall;

Why keep we else the instincts whose dread law Ruled here of yore, till what men felt they saw, Not by black arts but magic natural!

If eyes be still sworn vassals of belief,

Yon light shapes forth a Bard, that shade a Chief.



HOPE smiled when your nativity was cast,

Children of Summer! Ye fresh Flowers that brave

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