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 b