Classic Poem

Thus pass'd the night, in jovial song,
And brought the rosy morn along:
'Twas then supreme, upon the bright'ning heath,
The glorious Fingal rose!
He shook his glitt'ring spear, the spear of death —
Bravely victorious o'er his trembling foes;
Then graceful moved tow'r'ds Lena's glowing plain:
And, as a fiery beam, so moved his radiant train.
Spread the white sails, " cried Morven's king,
" And catch the winds that pour
" From Lena's, lessening shore. "
We mount the swelling waves, and joyous sing,
Forth rush to sea; — the foaming billows fly:
The lofty measures reach the vaulted sky,
And, on the broken surge the fainter accents die.
From Morven's rock, Minvane bends, —
And o'er the rolling main
Her snowy arms, in vain, extends,
On Ryno, calls — in vain!
She saw the bow, and glittering shield,
Our darkling looks she read —
That Ryno, in green Ullin's field —
Lay, mould'ring with the dead:
That, pale, upon the clouds he flew
Which o'er tall Morven pass;
His voice was in the gust, that blew
Along the trembling grass.

M INVANE

And, is the son of Fingal low
On Ullin's mossy plain?
Strong was the arm, and strong the bow
That have my Ryno, slain!
Ah! me — the sad Minvane cries!
I'm left, alas! forlorn!
Ye boasting winds, that catch my sighs
And lift my hair, in scorn —
Know this, alone I will not dwell,
Nor sigh to empty air;
I'll seek sad Ullin's darksome cell,
And sleep with Ryno, there.
I see thee not, all graceful move
Returning from the chace!
The night is round Minvane's love
In Ryno's silent place.
Where are thy dogs, of boasted ire!
That chaced the flying deer?
The bow, the shield, the sword of fire,
And Ryno's glittering spear?
Thy mingled arms, which blood distain,
Low, in the ship, I see!
In thy dark hall, those arms were vain,
Once Ryno, dear to thee!
When will the morn — with cheerful sound,
Cry — king of spears — arise?
The hunter's out, the hind, the hound —
Where sleeping Ryno, lies!
Away, thou fair-hair'd morn; away!
All wrapp'd in sullen gloom,
He hears thee not; the hinds in play
Bound o'er my Ryno's tomb.
But, O, my king! I'll softly tread —
And sighing, yield my breath
Where fate has made thy narrow bed,
Where fate has made thy narrow bed,
Where Ryno, sleeps in death.
The tuneful maids, shall seek me long,
But seek me long — in vain!
For me they raise the parting song;
Regardless of the strain!
Cease, cease your songs, ye tuneful maids,
And cease, for me, to weep:
For I, in Ullin's mossy shades —
With fair-hair'd Ryno, sleep.