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In this still place, remote from men,
Sleeps Ossian, in the NARROW GLEN;
In this still place, where murmurs on
But one meek Streamlet, only one :
He sang of battles, and the breath
Of stormy war, and violent death ;
And should, methinks, when all was past,
Have rightfully been laid at last
Where rocks were rudely heap'd, and rent
As by a spirit turbulent;
Where sights were rough, and sounds were wild,
And every thing unreconciled ;
In some complaining, dim retreat,
For fear and melancholy meet;

But this is calm; there cannot be
A more entire tranquillity.

Does then the Bard sleep here indeed ?
Or is it but a groundless creed ?
What matters it? I blame them not
Whose Fancy in this lonely Spot
Was moved; and in this way express’d
Their notion of it's perfect rest.
A Convent, even a hermit's Cell
Would break the silence of this Dell :
It is not quiet, is not ease ;
But something deeper far than these :
The separation that is here
Is of the grave; and of austere
And happy feelings of the dead :
And, therefore, was it rightly said
That Ossian, last of all his race !
Lies buried in this lonely place.



At Jedborough we went into private Lodgings for a few

days; and the following Verses were called forth by the character, and domestic situation, of our Hostess,

Age! twine thy brows with fresh spring flowers !
And call a train of laughing Hours;
And bid them dance, and bid them sing ;
And Thou, too, mingle in the Ring !
Take to thy heart a new delight;
If not, make merry in despite !
For there is one who scorns thy power.
- But dance ! for under Jedborough Tower
There liveth in the prime of glee,
A Woman, whose years are seventy-three,
And She will dance and sing with thee!


Nay! start not at that Figure- there!
Him who is rooted to his chair !
Look at him— look again ! for He
Hath long been of thy Family.
With legs that move not, if they can,
And useless arms, a Trunk of Man,
He sits, and with a vacant eye;
A Sight to make a Stranger sigh!
Deaf, drooping, that is now his doom :
His world is in this single room :
Is this a place for mirth and cheer ?
Can merry-making enter here ?

The joyous Woman is the Mate
Of Him in that forlorn estate !
He breathes a subterraneous damp,
But bright as Vesper sbines her lamp:
He is as mute as Jedborough Tower;
She jocund as it was of yore,

With all it's bravery on; in times,
When, all alive with merry chimes,
Upon a sun-bright morn of May,
It roaz’d the Vale to Holiday.

I praise thee, Matron! and thy due
Is praise; heroic praise, and true!
With admiration I behold
Thy gladness ansubdued and bold:
Thy looks, thy gestures, all present
The picture of a life well-spent :
This do I see ; and something more;
A strength unthought of heretofore !
Delighted am I for thy sake;
And yet a higher joy partake.
Our Human nature throws away
It's second Twilight, and looks gay:
A Land of promise and of pride
Unfolding, wide as life is wide.

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