in grief. "Why comes the race of heroes to a falling king? Ton-thormod of many spears is

Yet shall he mount, and keep his distant way
Beyond the limits of a vulgar fate,
Beneath the good how far-but far above the the chief of wavy Sar-dronlo. He saw and
great.

"OSSIAN"

JAMES MACPHERSON
(1736-1796)

OINA-MORUL.*

As flies the inconstant sun, over Larmon's grassy hill, so pass the tales of old, along my soul by night! When bards are removed to their place: when harps are hung in Selma's hall; then comes a voice to Ossian, and awakes his soul! It is the voice of years that are gone! they roll before me, with all their deeds! I seize the tales as they pass, and pour them forth in song. Nor a troubled stream is the song of the king, it is like the rising of music from Lutha of the strings. Lutha of many strings, not silent are thy streamy rocks, when the white hands of Malvina move upon the harp! Light of the shadowy thoughts, that fly across my soul, daughter of Toscar of helmets, wilt thou not hear the song? We call back, maid of Lutha, the years that have rolled away!

It was in the days of the king, while yet my locks were young, that I marked Concathlin,2 on high, from ocean's nightly wave. My course was towards the isle of Fuarfed, woody dweller of seas! Fingal had sent me to the aid of Mal-orchol, king of Fuarfed wild: for war was around him, and our fathers had met at the feast.

In Col-coiled, I bound my sails; I sent my sword to Mal-orchol of shells. He knew the signal of Albion, and his joy arose. He came from his own high hall, and seized my hand

1 The royal residence of 3 See note 1 to Gray's
Fingal.
ode just preceding.

loved my daughter, white-bosomed Oina-morul. He sought; I denied the maid! for our fathers had been foes. He came, with battle, to Fuarfed; my people are rolled away. Why comes the race of heroes to a falling king?''

"I come not," I said, "to look, like a boy, on the strife. Fingal remembers Mal-orchol, and his hall for strangers. From his waves, the warrior descended on thy woody isle. Thou wert no cloud before him. Thy feast was spread with songs. For this my sword shall rise; and thy foes perhaps may fail. Our friends are not forgot in their danger, though distant is our land."

"Descendant of the daring Trenmor, thy words are like the voice of Cruth-loda, when he speaks, from his parting cloud, strong dweller of the sky! Many have rejoiced at my feast; but they all have forgot Mal-orchol. I have looked towards all the winds; but no white sails were seen. But steel resounds in my hall; and not the joyful shells. Come to my dwelling, race of heroes! dark-skirted night is near. Hear the voice of songs, from the maid of Fuarfed wild.''

.

We went. On the harp arose the white hands of Oina-morul. She waked her own sad tale, from every trembling string. I stood in silence; for bright in her locks was the daughter of many isles! Her eyes were two stars, looking forward through a rushing shower. The mariner marks them on high, and blesses the lovely beams. With morning we rushed to battle, to Tormul's resounding stream: the foe moved to the sound of Ton-thormod's bossy shield. From wing to wing the strife was mixed. I met Ton-thormod in flight. Wide flew his broken steel. I seized the king in war. I gave his hand, bound fast with thongs, to Mal-orchol, the giver of shells. Joy rose at the feast of Fuarfed, for the foe had failed. Ton-thormod turned his face away, from Oinamorul of isles!

2 A star, perhaps the pole-star. The rhythmical prose pieces published by James Macpherson in 1760-1763 as translations from "Son of Fingal," began Mal-orchol, "not the ancient Gaelic bard Ossian (Oisin), son of Fingal (Finn), were apparently based upon forgot shalt thou pass from me. A light shall genuine Gaelic, though probably not Ossianic, dwell in thy ship, Oina-morul of slow-rolling remains, with liberal additions by Macpherson himself. See Eng. Lit. 223. In the poem here eyes. She shall kindle gladness, along thy given. Ossian, addressing his daughter-in-law mighty soul. Nor unheeded shall the maid Malvina, "maid of Lutha," relates a generous deed of his youthful days. Sent by his father move in Selma, through the dwelling of to the assistance of the king of Fuarfed, he kings!" defeated the foe, Ton-thormod, and was promised the king's daughter, Oina-morul. But discovering that she loved Ton-thormod. he yielded his claim and brought about a recon ciliation of the foes. The rather excessive punctuation of the piece is meant to emphasize its rhythmical character.

In the hall I lay in night. Mine eyes were half-closed in sleep. Soft music came to mine ear: it was like the rising breeze, that whirls,

4 Odin.

at first, the thistle's beard; then flies, dark | beauty from the clouds, and laughest at the shadowy, over the grass. It was the maid of storm. But to Ossian, thou lookest in vain;

Fuarfed wild! she raised the nightly song; she knew that my soul was a stream, that flowed at pleasant sounds. "Who looks," she said, "from his rock on ocean's closing mist? His long locks, like the raven's wing, are wandering on the blast. Stately are his steps in grief! The tears are in his eyes! His manly breast is heaving over his bursting soul! Retire, I am distant far; a wanderer in lands unknown. Though the race of kings are around me, yet my soul is dark. Why have our fathers been foes, Ton-thormod, love of maids?''

"Soft voice of the streamy isle," I said, "why dost thou mourn by night? The race of daring Trenmor are not the dark in soul. Thou shalt not wander, by streams unknown, blue-eyed Oina-morul! Within this bosom is a voice; it comes not to other ears: it bids Ossian hear the hapless, in their hour of woe. Retire, soft singer by night! Ton-thormod shall not mourn on his rock!"

With morning I loosed the king. I gave the long-haired maid. Mal-orchol heard my words, in the midst of his echoing halls. "King of Fuarfed wild, why should Ton-thormod mourn? He is of the race of heroes, and a flame in war. Your fathers have been foes, but now their dim ghosts rejoice in death. They stretch their hands of mist to the same shell in Loda.5 Forget their rage, ye warriors! it was the cloud of other years. ""

Such were the deeds of Ossian, while yet his locks were young: though loveliness, with a robe of beams, clothed the daughter of many isles. We call back, maid of Lutha, the years that have rolled away!

FROM CARTHON

OSSIAN'S ADDRESS TO THE SUN

for he beholds thy beams no more; whether thy yellow hair flows on the eastern clouds, or thou tremblest at the gates of the west. But thou art, perhaps, like me, for a season; thy years will have an end. Thou shalt sleep in thy clouds, careless of the voice of the morning. Exult then, O sun! in the strength of thy youth: Age is dark and unlovely; it is like the glimmering light of the moon, when it shines through broken clouds, and the mist is on the hills; the blast of the north is on the plain, the traveler shrinks in the midst of his journey.

THOMAS CHATTERTON*

(1752-1770)

EPITAPH ON ROBERT CANYNGE

Thys Morneynge Starre of Radcleves rysynge
Raic,

A True Man, Good of Mynde, and Canynge
hyghte,1

Benethe thys Stone lies moltrynge ynto Claie,
Untylle the darke Tombe sheene an aeterne
Lyghte.

Thyrde from hys Loyns the present Canynge
came; †

Houton2 are wordes for to telle his doe;3
For aie shall lyve hys Heaven-recorded Name,
Ne shalle ytte die whanne Tyme shall be ne
moe; 4

Whan Mychael's Trompe shall sounde to rize
the Soulle,

3 deeds
4 no more

1 named
2 hollow
*The "Rowley poems" of Chatterton, ascribed by
him to a fictitious priest called Rowley, of the
fifteenth century, are written in a spurious
archaic dialect, not a few of the forms being
pure inventions, sometimes merely for con-
venience of rhyme. In the selections here
given (except the Epitaph, which is left un-
altered) the spelling and some words are mod-
ernized, in accordance with Professor Skeat's
edition, the better to show what genuine
powers the youthful poet possessed. Chatter-
ton wrote after this fashion :

O thou that rollest above, round as the shield of my fathers! Whence are thy beams, O sun! thy everlasting light? Thou comest forth, in thy awful beauty; the stars hide themselves in the sky; the moon, cold and pale, sinks in the western wave. But thou thyself movest alone: who can be a companion of thy course? The oaks of the mountains fall: the mountains themselves decay with years; the ocean shrinks and grows again: the moon herself is lost in heaven; but thou art for ever the same; re-t joicing in the brightness of thy course. When the world is dark with tempests; when thunder rolls, and lightning flies; thou lookest in thy 5 The Hall of Odin.

"In Virgyne the sweltrie sun gan sheene,

And hotte upon the mees did caste his raie; The apple rodded from its palie greene," etc. This Spenserian manner, as in the poetry of Thomson a generation earlier, is in marked contrast to the prevailing classicism of the age. See Eng. Lit., p. 223.

William Canning, an actual mayor of Bristol in the time of Edward IV., who with his grandfather rebuilt the beautiful church of St. Mary Redcliffe ("Radcleves rysynge Raie"). It does not appear that the great-grandfather, Robert, had any share in it. William Canning was asserted by Chatterton to have been Rowley's patron.

He'lle wynge toe heaven with kynne, and happie be ther dolle.5

AN EXCELENTE BALADE OF CHARITIE (AS WRITTEN BY THE GOOD PRIEST THOMAS ROWLEY, 1464)

1

In Virgo now the sultry sun did sheene,
And hot upon the meads did cast his ray;
The apple reddened from its paly green,
And the soft pear did bend the leafy spray;
The pied chelandry sang the livelong day;
"Twas now the pride, the manhood of the year,
And eke the ground was decked in its most
deft aumere.7

2

The sun was gleaming in the midst of day,
Dead-still the air, and eke the welkin blue,
When from the sea arose in drear array
A heap of clouds of sable sullen hue,
The which full fast unto the woodland drew,
Hiding at once the sunnès festive face,

And the black tempest swelled, and gathered
up apace.

3

Beneath a holm,8 fast by a pathway-side,
Which did unto Saint Godwin's convent lead,
A hapless pilgrim moaning did abide,
Poor in his view, ungentle in his weed,
Long brimful of the miseries of need.

6

List! now the thunder's rattling noisy sound
Moves slowly on, and then full-swollen clangs,
Shakes the high spire, and lost, expended,
drowned,

Still on the frighted ear of terror hangs;
The winds are up; the lofty elm tree swangs;
Again the lightning, and the thunder pours,
And the full clouds are burst at once in
stony showers.

7

Spurring his palfrey o'er the watery plain,
The Abbot of Saint Godwin's convent came;
His chapournette12 was drenched with the rain,
His painted girdle met with mickle shame;
He aynewarde told his bederoll13 at the same;
The storm increases, and he drew aside,

With the poor alms-craver near to the holm
to bide.

8

His cope was all of Lincoln cloth so fine,
With a gold button fastened near his chin,
His autremete11 was edged with golden twine,
And his shoe's peak a noble's might have been;
Full well it shewèd he thought cost no sin.
The trammels of his palfrey pleased his sight,
For the horse-milliner his head with roses
dight.15

9

“An alms, sir priest!'' the drooping pilgrim said,

Where from the hailstorm could the beggar fly?"Oh! let me wait within your convent-door, He had no houses there, nor any convent nigh.

Till the sun shineth high above our head,
And the loud tempest of the air is o'er.
Helpless and old am I, alas! and poor.
No house, no friend, nor money in my pouch,
All that I call my own is this my silver
crouche. ''13

And now the grey-eyed morn with violets drest,

*There are two versions of this poem, one of Shaking the dewdrops on the flowery meads,