From Ossian. Poem by Susan Evance

IN the lone hall my harp is hung,
While dusky twilight reigns around;
I hear light fingers o'er it flung,
They wake a sad and solemn sound.

Or is it the lamenting breeze,
That murmurs ere it sinks to rest?
It rustles through those mountain-trees,
It flies o'er Ocean's stormy breast-

No- 'tis Malvina- blue-eyed maid!
She comes upon a moon-beam pale,
With robe of mist- the hovering shade
Wakens my wild harp's mournful wail.

Sad is her mildly pensive face,
She points unto her lover's grave; -
Yes, I will seek the lonely place,
Where aged grass and high flow'rs wave.

And there, with tender mourning sound,
I'll pour upon the winds my song;
And listening echoes all around
Shall hear it the dark caves among.

Yonder my Oscar's ghost I see-
He seems to beckon me away;
Ah! soon will Ossian cease to be-
Soon o'er his tomb the blast will stray.

Then like yon star that dips the main,
Or like the gale that sweeps along,
He sinks- and ne'er is heard again
His wild harp, or his varying song.

But shall he not his Fathers meet,
In the dark hall where heroes dwell
Will not each Bard his praise repeat,
And fame his deeds of valour tell!

Then bear my ghost, ye winds! on high,
And my grey hairs no longer wave;
But when beneath this stone I lie,
Sigh thro' the grass that decks my grave.