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LETTER LXI.
October 12.
OSSIAN has taken the place of Homer in my heart and imagination.
To what a world does the illustrious bard carry me! To wander in
heaths and wilds, surrounded by impetuous whirlwinds, in which,
by the feeble light of the moon, we discover the spirits of our
ancestors; -- to hear from the top of the mountains, amidst the
roaring of the waters, their plaintive sounds issuing from deep
caverns, and the sorrowful lamentations of a maiden who sighs and
dies on the mossy tomb of the warrior by whom she was adored! I
meet this bard with silver hair; he wanders in the valley; he
seeks the footsteps of his fathers. Alas! he finds only their
tombs! Then contemplating the pale moon as she sinks beneath the
waves of the foaming sea, the memory {154} of time past strikes
the mind of the hero; -- those times when the approach of danger
filled his heart with exultation, and gave vigour to his nerves
-- when the moon shone upon his bark, laden with the spoils of
his enemies, and lighted up his triumph -- when I read in his
countenance his deep sorrow -- when I see his sinking glory
tottering towards the grave -- when he casts a look over the cold
earth which is to cover him, and cries out, "The traveller will
come, he will come who has seen my beauty, and he will ask where
is the bard, where is the illustrious son of Fingal? he will walk
over my tomb and he will seek me in vain!" -- Then, O my friend!
I could instantly, like a true and noble knight, draw my sword,
and rescue my prince from long and painful languor, and
afterwards plunge it into my own breast, to follow the demi-god
whom my hand set free.
