A Dissertation on the Authenticity of the Poems of OssianW. Bulmer, 1806 - 232 pagina's |
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A Dissertation on the Authenticity of the Poems of Ossian John Sinclair Geen voorbeeld beschikbaar - 2020 |
Veelvoorkomende woorden en zinsdelen
ancient appear Appendix arms ascribed authenticity of Ossian bard battle beautiful Bishop Cameron blood book of Fingal brave Cairbar Calmar Captain Carril Cathbat Celtic chief circumstance clouds collection composed Connal Cormac Cromla Cuthullin dark death deer Douay Duchomar Erin evidence feast Fingal Fingalians Fithil Frode Gaelic originals Gaelic poems Gaelic poetry Gaelic scholar ginal hand heard heath heroes Highland Society hill Homer honour Ireland Irish James Macgillivray James Macpherson John Farquharson John Macgregor king language letter literal Lochlin M. T. line Macgillivray Macpherson's translation maid manuscript mighty mind mist Morna night observe original Gaelic Ossian's poems peace person poems of Ossian poet poetical printed publication regarding Report roaring rock says Scotland Semo shield side Sir John Sinclair song sons soul spear storm streams sublime Swaran sword thou tion Torman trans verses waves wind word
Populaire passages
Pagina cxciii - WHEN Learning's triumph o'er her barbarous foes First rear'd the stage, immortal Shakespeare rose; Each change of many-colour'd life he drew, Exhausted worlds, and then imagin'd new: Existence saw him spurn her bounded reign, And panting Time toil'd after him in vain. His powerful strokes presiding truth impress'd, And unresisted passion storm'd the breast.
Pagina cxcvi - Helmets are cleft on high. Blood bursts and smokes around. Strings murmur on the polished yews. Darts rush along the sky, spears fall like the circles of light which gild the face of night.
Pagina cliii - Moran,' replied the blue-eyed chief, 'thou ever tremblest, son of Fithil ! thy fears have increased the foe. It is Fingal, king of deserts, with aid to green Erin of streams.
Pagina iii - The editor, or author, never could show the original ; nor can it be shown by any other; to revenge reasonable incredulity, by refusing evidence, is a degree of insolence, with which the world is not yet acquainted ; and stubborn audacity is the last refuge of guilt.
Pagina cxxxvi - Death raises all his voices around, and mixes with the sounds of shields. Each hero is a pillar of darkness ; the sword a beam of fire in his hand. The field echoes from wing to wing, as a hundred hammers that rise by turns on the red son of the furnace.
Pagina clxi - Duchomar was the dream of her night! She will raise my tomb; the hunter shall raise my fame. But draw the sword from my breast. Morna, the steel is cold!' She came, in all her tears, she came ; she drew the sword from his breast. He pierced her white side! He spread her fair locks on the ground ! Her bursting blood sounds from her side: her white arm is stained with red. Rolling in death she lay. The cave re-echoed to her sighs." "Peace," said Cuthullin, "to the souls of the heroes!
Pagina cxxviii - Thin thongs, bright-studded with gems, bend on the stately necks of the steeds. The steeds that like wreaths of mist fly over the streamy vales ! The wildness of deer is in their course, the strength of eagles descending on the prey. Their noise is like the blast of winter, on the sides of the snow-headed Gormal.
Pagina cviii - Cuthullin," calm the chief replied, "the spear of Connal is keen. It delights to shine in battle, to mix with the blood of thousands. But though my hand is bent on fight, my heart is for the peace of Erin. Behold, thou first in Cormac's war, the sable fleet of Swaran. His masts are many on our coast, like reeds in the Lake of Lego. His ships are forests clothed with mist, when the trees yield by turns to the squally wind.
Pagina cxcviii - Svaran la possa 460 così Erina incontrò. Schiude la morte tutte le fauci sue; tutte l'orrende sue voci inalza e le frammischia al suono dei rotti scudi: ogni guerriero è torre d'oscuritade, ed ogni spada è lampo.
Pagina cxxxii - Blood bursts and smokes around. Strings murmur on the polished yews. Darts rush along the sky. Spears fall like the circles of light, which gild the face of night. As the noise of the troubled ocean, when roll the waves on high. As the last peal of thunder in heaven, such is the din of war...