The Death-Song of Ossian.
Such were the words of the bards in the days of song; when the king heard the music of harps, the tales of other times! The chiefs gathered from all their hills, and heard the lovely sound. They praised the Voice of Cona! The first among a thousand bards! But age is now on my tongue; my soul has failed! I hear, at times, the ghosts of the bards, and learn their pleasant song. But memory fails on my mind. I hear the call of years! They say, as they pass along, why does Ossian sing? Soon shall he lie in the narrow house, and no bard shall raise his fame! Roll on, ye dark-brown years; ye bring no joy on your course! Let the tomb open to Ossian, for his strength has failed. The sons of song are gone to rest. My voice remains, like a blast, that roars, lonely, on a sea-surrounded rock, after the winds are laid. The dark moss whistles there; the distant mariner sees the waving trees!
II
ANCIENT
CORNISH
The Pool of Pilate.
[Wayfarer loq.
Guel yv thy’mmo vy may fe
mos the wolhy ow dule
a Thesempes
me a vyn omma yn dour
may fons y guyn ha glan lour
a vostethes
. . . . . .
Ellas pan fema gynys
ancow sur yw dynythys
Scon thy’mmo vy
ny’m bus bywe na fella
an dour re wruk thy’m henna
yn pur deffry.
ANCIENT CORNISH
The Pool of Pilate.
[Wayfarer loq.
It is best to me that it be so
Go to wash my hands
Immediately
I will, here in the water,
That they may be white, and clean enough
From dirt.
[He washes his hands in the water and dies immediately.]
Alas that I was born!
Death surely is come
Soon to me.
Life is no longer for me,
The water has done that to me
Very clearly.