Melody VI. the Harp of Ossian

Tho' rich majestic Homer's lay, Tho' ages bend to Maro's sway, Supreme of Latian song; Yet, Ossian, mid the sainted train, Shall to thy harp of solemn strain No second place belong.

He fortunate whose eye Could first thy beam espy, Glimmering thro' shades of solitary night; Whose hand, blest lyre, anew thy splendor could excite. O heaths of Morven, and ye rocky isles, That dare the surges of the western main, Oft, when mild Eve diffused her rosy smiles, The master soothed you with his mighty strain: Emergent from the chambers of the rain, While airy shapes with rapture heard the lays, As thro' the watry shore, and desert plain, And shaggy caves obscure, in winding maze The wondering echoes spred the accents of their praise.

Of kings ye modern throng Attend the moral song; Learn, to be great ye only need be good: So Fingal's holy stem gods of their people stood. Like incense swelling from the sacred fire, Illustrious chief, thy tuneful dictates flow; Able each breast with virtue to inspire That wakes to human bliss or human woe. No more shall dull Oblivion rest thy foe; Thy ebon harp Fame in her shrine shall place, All worthy in the brightest rank to glow; No tinsel hues the simple frame deface, But gems and purest gold with orient lustre grace.

Envy in vain Shall seek to dim the light of thy name. When the eagle from his rock Descries the crows dark children of the wood, He degrades not his pride By the base encounter; But rising in the blaze of noon, Leaves his foes in the regions of darkness. Such shall be thy praise Thou Son of the Mighty!

To hide the king of day In vain the clouds display Their shade: Soon as the king of day Assumes meridian sway They fade.