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James Macpherson Quotes
1736–1796 Scotland
James Macpherson (Gaelic: Seumas MacMhuirich or Seumas Mac a' Phearsain) (27 October 1736 – 17 February 1796) was a Scottish poet and literary hoaxer. His supposed translations from poems by the ancient Highland bard Ossian, sensationally successful in their day, were largely forgeries, though with an admixture of traditional Gaelic material.
Scotland Poets Politicians Translators Also known as: Ossian
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Those who have doubted my veracity have paid a compliment to my genius.
Often, like the evening sun, comes the memory of former times on my soul.
Thou shalt sleep in thy clouds, careless of the voice of the morning.
Ossian (1847)
The music was like the memory of joys that are past, pleasant and mournful to the soul.
Often does the memory of former times come, like the evening sun, on my soul.
Sorrow, like a cloud on the sun, shades the soul of Clessammor.
Where art thou, beam of light? Hunters, from the mossy rock, saw ye the blue-eyed fair?
Hail, Carril of other times! Thy voice is like the harp in the halls of Tura.
Can I forget that beam of light, the white-handed daughter of kings?
I look down from my height on nations
They stood in silence, in their beauty: like two young trees of the plain, when the shower of spring is on their leaves, and the loud winds are laid.
As roll a thousand waves to the rocks, so Swaran's host came on. As meets a rock a thousand waves, so Erin met Swaran of spears.
Go, view the settling sea: the stormy wind is laid. The billows still tremble on the deep. They seem to fear the blast.
The groan of the people spread over the hills; it was like the thunder of night, when the cloud bursts on Cona; and a thousand ghosts shriek at once on the hollow wind.
The gloom of the battle roared.
"Go, with a song of peace," said Fingal; "go, Ullin, to the king of swords. Tell him that we are mighty in war; that the ghosts of our foes are many."
I beheld their chief, tall as a glittering rock. His spear is a blasted pine. His shield the rising moon! He sat on the shore, like a cloud of mist on the silent hill!
I was a lovely tree, in thy presence, Oscar, with all my branches round me; but thy death came like a blast from the desert, and laid my green head low.
Lovely are the tales of other times. They are like the calm dew of the morning on the hill of roses, when the sun is faint on its side, and the lake is settled and blue in the vale.
Then rose the strife of kings about the hill of night; but it was soft as two summer gales, shaking their light wings on a lake.
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