An EPILOGUE, To the MUSE of OSSIAN

In fond romance let fancy reign creative! Valour amongst the northern hills is native; The northern hills, 'tis prov'd by Ossian's story, Gave early birth to Caledonian glory; Nor cou'd the stormy clime with all its rigour, Repel, in love or war, the hero's vigour.

When honour call'd, the youth disdain'd to ponder, And as he fought the fav'rite maid grew fonder. The brave, by beauty were rejected never, For girls are gracious when the lads are clever.

If the bold youth was in the field vindictive, The bard, at home, had ev'ry power descriptive; He swell'd the sacred song—enhanc'd the story, And rais'd the warrior to the skies of glory.

That northern lads are still unconquer'd fellows, The foes of Britain to their cost can tell us; The sway of northern beauty, if disputed, Look round, ye infidels, and stand confuted: And for your bards, the letter'd world have known 'em, They're such—The sacred Ossian can't disown 'em.

To prove a partial judgment does not wrong you, And that your usual candour reigns among you, Look with indulgence on this crude endeavour, And stamp it with the sanction of your favour.