SOMEWHAT IN IMITATION OF THE POEMS OF OSSIAN.


LATHMOR.
But why do'st thou stop on the way, and hold me thus hard in thy grasp?
It was but the voice of the winds from the deep narrow glens of Glanarven.

ALLEN.
The heath is unruffled around, and the oak o'er thy head is at rest:
Calm swells the moon on the lake, and nothing is heard in the reeds.
Sad was the sound, O my father! but it was not the voice of the wind.

LATHMOR.
What dark tow'ring rock do I see 'midst the grey spreading mist of the
hills?
This is not the vale of Clanarven: my son, we have err'd from the way,

ALLEN.
It is not a dark tow'ring rock, 'midst the grey settled mist of the hills.
'Tis a dark tow'r of strength which thou seest, and the ocean spreads
dimly behind it.

LATHMOR.
Then here will we stop for the night, for the tow'r of Arthula is near.
Proceed not, my son, on the way, for it was not the voice of the wind.
The ghost of the valliant is forth; and it mourns round the place of its
woe.
The tray'ller oft' hears it at midnight, and turns him aside from its
haunt.