_Number V._

DUAN, IN THE TRUE OSSIAN SUBLIMITY,

By MR. MACPHERSON.

Does the wind touch thee, O HARP? Or is it some passing Ghost? Is is thy hand, Spirit of the departed Scrutiny? Bring me the harp, pride of CHATHAM! Snow is on thy bosom, Maid of the modest eye! A song shall rise! Every soul shall depart at the sound!!! The wither'd thistle shall crown my head!!! I behold thee, O King! I behold thee sitting on mist!!! Thy form is like a watery cloud, Singing in the deep like an oyster!!!! Thy face is like the beams of the setting moon! Thy eyes are of two decaying flames! Thy nose is like the spear of ROLLO!!! Thy ears are like three bossy shields!!! Strangers shall rejoice at thy chin! The ghosts of dead Tories shall hear me In their airy hall! The wither'd thistle shall crown my head! Bring me the Harp, Son of CHATHAM! But thou, O King! give me the Laurel!