RETROSPECT. 159 



( )r hoard we his wild harp who drew his breath 



In the dark pass, dark as the frown of death ? 



Where Cona*, creeping through the mossy stones, 



Along his gloomy way, forsaken moans, 



As if remembering still the mighty dead, 



Or mourning the fell deed that dyed his current red ? f 



'Twas not, Fingal, the winding of thy horn ; 



'Twas not thy shade wrapt in the mists of morn ; 



'Twas not, oh Ossian ! thy sad minstrelsy, 



Heard o'er the mountains as the dead pass'd by ; 



But here, as on the scene renown'd we gaze, 



Where strode the awful chiefs of other days, 



Wild fancy wakes. Sudden before our eyes, 



As to the lonely seer that dreaming lies, 



Pale shadowy maids, and phantom chiefs, arise ; 



Dim floats the sombrous imagery sublime, 



Thy lone harp mingles sad its sweetest chime, 



The aged rocks seem listening to the song, 



On clouds of mist the spectre warriors throng, 



Whilst the low gale sighs o'er their mossy bed ; 



Peace to the shadows of the mighty dead ! 



Break off break off. Gone, long since gone, is that 

 beautiful day-spring of life alas! how fleeting when 

 for the first time we wandered along the rude wastes and 

 sounding shores of the stormy Hebrides looking forward 

 to some undefined pleasure, radiant with hope, and glowing 

 with enthusiasm; departed are those day-dreams of the 

 romantic fancy; and the illusive veil at length drawn 

 aside, nought is now before us but the stern realities of life. 



* A river in the pass. 



| Massacre by the soldiers of William III. 



1 



