OFT
have
I
caught,
upon
a
fitful
breeze,
Fragments
of
far-off
melodies,
With
ear
not
coveting
the
whole,
A
part
so
charmed
the
pensive
soul.
While
a
dark
storm
before
my
sight
Was
yielding,
on
a
mountain
height
Loose
vapours
have
I
watched,
that
won
Prismatic
colours
from
the
sun;
Nor
felt
a
wish
that
heaven
would
show
The
image
of
its
perfect
bow.
What
need,
then,
of
these
finished
Strains?
Away
with
counterfeit
Remains!
An
abbey
in
its
lone
recess,
A
temple
of
the
wilderness,
Wrecks
though
they
be,
announce
with
feeling
The
majesty
of
honest
dealing.
Spirit
of
Ossian!
if
imbound
In
language
thou
may'st
yet
be
found,
If
aught
(intrusted
to
the
pen
Or
floating
on
the
tongues
of
men,
Albeit
shattered
and
impaired)
Subsist
thy
dignity
to
guard,
In
concert
with
memorial
claim
Of
old
grey
stone,
and
high-born
name
That
cleaves
to
rock
or
pillared
cave
Where
moans
the
blast,
or
beats
the
wave,
Let
Truth,
stern
arbitress
of
all,
Interpret
that
Original,
And
for
presumptuous
wrongs
atone;--
Authentic
words
be
given,
or
none!
Time
is
not
blind;--yet
He,
who
spares
Pyramid
pointing
to
the
stars,
Hath
preyed
with
ruthless
appetite
On
all
that
marked
the
primal
flight
Of
the
poetic
ecstasy
Into
the
land
of
mystery.
No
tongue
is
able
to
rehearse
One
measure,
Orpheus!
of
thy
verse;
Musaeus,
stationed
with
his
lyre
Supreme
among
the
Elysian
quire,
Is,
for
the
dwellers
upon
earth,
Mute
as
a
lark
ere
morning's
birth.
Why
grieve
for
these,
though
past
away
The
music,
and
extinct
the
lay?
When
thousands,
by
severer
doom,
Full
early
to
the
silent
tomb
Have
sunk,
at
Nature's
call;
or
strayed
From
hope
and
promise,
self-betrayed;
The
garland
withering
on
their
brows;
Stung
with
remorse
for
broken
vows;
Frantic--else
how
might
they
rejoice?
And
friendless,
by
their
own
sad
choice!
Hail,
Bards
of
mightier
grasp!
on
you
I
chiefly
call,
the
chosen
Few,
Who
cast
not
off
the
acknowledged
guide,
Who
faltered
not,
nor
turned
aside;
Whose
lofty
genius
could
survive
Privation,
under
sorrow
thrive;
In
whom
the
fiery
Muse
revered
The
symbol
of
a
snow-white
beard,
Bedewed
with
meditative
tears
Dropped
from
the
lenient
cloud
of
years.
Brothers
in
soul!
though
distant
times
Produced
you
nursed
in
various
climes,
Ye,
when
the
orb
of
life
had
waned,
A
plenitude
of
love
retained:
Hence,
while
in
you
each
sad
regret
By
corresponding
hope
was
met,
Ye
lingered
among
human
kind,
Sweet
voices
for
the
passing
wind,
Departing
sunbeams,
loth
to
stop,
Though
smiling
on
the
last
hill
top!
Such
to
the
tender-hearted
maid
Even
ere
her
joys
begin
to
fade;
Such,
haply,
to
the
rugged
chief
By
fortune
crushed,
or
tamed
by
grief;
Appears,
on
Morven's
lonely
shore,
Dim-gleaming
through
imperfect
lore,
The
Son
of
Fingal;
such
was
blind
Maeonides
of
ampler
mind;
Such
Milton,
to
the
fountain
head
Of
glory
by
Urania
led!
