The birds that flew
Clamorous about the cliffs, and diving drew
Their prey from bounteous waters, on him cast
Cold, beady eyes of wonder, wheeling past
And sliding down the wind.




II.

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....