Classic Poem

From the Poems of O SSIAN .

The Story.

SONG of the First Bard .

A LL dark, and doleful is the night!
The clouds on mountains lie;
No star displays its trembling light,
No moon illumes the sky:
I hear the blast, that shakes the wood,
The blast, that distant blows;
I hear the valley's sudden flood —
Hoarse murmur — as it flows.
From yonder tree the grave beside,
I hear the owl complain;
I see a dim-form slowly glide —
Across the danky plain!
A ghostly form! — it fades! — it dies!
Some funeral pomp shall pass —
Where yonder fiery meteor flies,
Along the kindling grass.
The distant dog, with howlings shrill,
Astounds the echoing vale;
All from the lone-hut, on the hill,
That braves the wint'ry gale.
The stag's on mountain moss reclined
(The wind is in his horns)
Safe by his side, the timid hind —
Lies sleeping, 'neath the thorns;
All in his branchy horns, she hears
The rude-winds roar amain,
She starts! she looks! erects her ears,
Then sinking, — sleeps again.

Deep in the cavern of the rock
The roe, securely sleeps:
With head beneath his wing, the cock
His peaceful vigil keeps.
No beast, or bird will venture forth
When such fierce tempests howl,
To brave the fury of the north, —
Save fox, and hooting owl;
Lone, blinking on a leafless tree,
She creaks her empty bill:
And, starting from the covert, he —
Scuds o'er the cloud-capt hill.

Dark, panting, trembling, wan with fear,
The devious pilgrim strays,
Thro' shrubs, thro' thorns, thro' buskets drear,
Appall'd with dire amaze!
He hears the vagrant waters chink
Adown the rocky steep,
He fears the fen, that forms the brink —
Of yonder vasty deep;
He fears the ghost and stands aghast!
That stalks his nightly rounds:
The old-tree groans before the blast,
The falling branch resounds.
The wind, with breath, collected, strong,
Sweeps o'er the quivering grass,
It whirls the gathering burs along:
He hears them, as they pass!
The tread of passing ghost is near!
It lightly hurries by;
But fear assails his trembling ear,
And floats afore his eye.

Dark, dusky, howling is the night:
The shrowded spectres rise!
And thro' the air, the wilder'd spright —
With boding pinions flies!
From yawning grave, the livid form
In ghostly pomp, ascends!
The night is dark; the threat'ning storm
Returns me, to my friends.