The warm sun shone
On blind, grey Ossian musing all alone
Upon a knoll before the high stockade,
When Oscar's son came nigh. His hand he laid
On the boy's curls, and then his fingers strayed
Over the face and round the tender chin—
"Be thou as brave as Oscar, wise as Finn,"
Said Ossian, with a sigh. "Nay, I would be
A bard," the boy made answer, "like to thee."
"Alas! my son," the gentle Ossian said,
"My song was born in sorrow for the dead!…
O may such grief as Ossian's ne'er be thine!—
If thou would'st sing, may thou below the pine
Murmuring, thy dreams conceive, and happy be,
Nor hear but sorrow in the breaking sea
And death-sighs in the gale. Alas! my song
That rose in sorrow must survive in wrong—
My life is spent and vain—a day of thine
Were better than a long, dark year of mine….
But come, my son—so lead me by the hand—
To hear the sweetest harper in the land—
The wild, free wind of Spring; all o'er the hills
And under, let us go, by tuneful rills
We'll wander, and my heart shall sweetened be
With echoes of the moorland melody—
My clarsach wilt thou bear." And so went they
Together from Knockfarrel. Long they lay
Within the woods of Brahan, and by the shore
Of silvery Conon wended, crossing o'er
The ford at Achilty, where Ossian told
The tale of Finn, who there had slain the bold
Black Arky in his youth. And ere the tale
Was ended, they had crossed to Tarradale.
Where dwelt a daughter of an ancient race
Deep-learned in lore, and with the gift to trace
The thread of life in the dark web of fate.
And she to Ossian cried, "Thou comest late
Too late, alas! this day of all dark days—
Knockfarrel is before me all ablaze—
A fearsome vision flaming to mine eyes—
O beating heart that bleeds! I hear the cries
Of those that perish in yon high stockade—
O many a tender lad, and lonesome maid,
Sweet wife and sleeping babe, and hero old—
O Ossian could'st thou see—O child, behold
Yon ruddy, closing clouds … so falls the fate
Of all the tribe … Alas! thou comest late." …