[COLMA'S LAMENT]
It is night; I am alone, forlorn on the hill of storms.
The wind is heard in the mountain. The torrent pours
down the rock. No hut receives me from the rain, forlorn
on the hill of winds.
Rise, moon! from behind thy clouds. Stars of the night,
arise! Lead me, some light, to the place where my love
rests from the chase alone! his bow near him, unstrung;
his dogs panting around him. But here I must sit alone,
by the rock of the mossy stream. The stream and the
wind roar aloud. I hear not the voice of my love! Why
delays my Salgar, why the chief of the hill, his promise?
Here is the rock, and here the tree! here is the roaring
stream! Thou didst promise with night to be here. Ah!
whither is my Salgar gone? With thee I would fly, from
my father; with thee, from my brother of pride. Our race
have long been foes; we are not foes, O Salgar!
Cease a little while, O wind! stream, be thou silent a
while! let my voice be heard around. Let my wanderer
hear me! Salgar! it is Colma who calls. Here is the
tree and the rock. Salgar, my love! I am here. Why
delayest thou thy coming? Lo! the calm moon comes
forth. The flood is bright in the vale. The rocks are grey
on the steep. I see him not on the brow. His dogs come
not before him, with tidings of his near approach. Here
I must sit alone!
Who lie on the heath beside me? Are they my love and
my brother? Speak to me, O my friends! To Colma they
give no reply. Speak to me: I am alone! My soul is
tormented with fears! Ah, they are dead! Their swords
are red from the fight. O my brother! my brother! why
hast thou slain my Salgar? Why, O Salgar! hast thou
slain my brother? Dear were ye both to me! what shall
I say in your praise? Thou wert fair on the hill among
thousands! he was terrible in fight. Speak to me; hear
my voice; hear me, sons of my love! They are silent;
silent for ever! Cold, cold are their breasts of clay. Oh!
from the rock on the hill; from the top of the windy
steep, speak, ye ghosts of the dead! speak, I will not be
afraid! Whither are ye gone to rest? In what cave of
the hill shall I find the departed? No feeble voice is on
the gale; no answer half-drowned in the storm!
I sit in my grief? I wait for morning in my tears!
Rear the tomb, ye friends of the dead. Close it not till
Colma come. My life flies away like a dream! why should
I stay behind? Here shall I rest with my friends, by the
stream of the sounding rock. When night comes on the
hill; when the loud winds arise; my ghost shall stand in
the blast, and mourn the death of my friends. The hunter
shall hear from his booth. He shall fear, but love my
voice! For sweet shall my voice be for my friends:
pleasant were her friends to Colma!
[THE LAST WORDS OF OSSIAN]
Such were the words of the bards in the days of song;
when the king heard the music of harps, the tales of other
times! The chiefs gathered from all their hills and
heard the lovely sound. They praised the voice of Cona
[Ossian], the first among a thousand bards! But age is
now on my tongue; my soul has failed! I hear at times
the ghosts of bards, and learn their pleasant song. But
memory fails on my mind. I hear the call of years!
They say as they pass along, why does Ossian sing? Soon
shall he lie in the narrow house, and no bard shall raise
his fame! Roll on, ye dark-brown years; ye bring no joy
on your course! Let the tomb open to Ossian, for his
strength has failed. The sons of song are gone to rest.
My voice remains, like a blast that roars lonely on a
sea-surrounded rock, after the winds are laid. The dark
moss whistles there; the distant mariner sees the waving
trees!