“Have you brought nothing to read?” she inquired.  He had nothing.  “There in my drawer,” she continued, “you will find your own translation of some of the songs of Ossian.  I have not yet read them, as I have still hoped to hear you recite them; but, for some time past, I have not been able to accomplish such a wish.”  He smiled, and went for the manuscript, which he took with a shudder.  He sat down; and, with eyes full of tears, he began to read.

“Star of descending night! fair is thy light in the west! thou liftest thy unshorn head from thy cloud; thy steps are stately on thy hill.  What dost thou behold in the plain?  The stormy winds are laid.  The murmur of the torrent comes from afar.  Roaring waves climb the distant rock.  The flies of evening are on their feeble wings:  the hum of their course is on the field.  What dost thou behold, fair light?  But thou dost smile and depart.  The waves come with joy around thee:  they bathe thy lovely hair.  Farewell, thou silent beam!  Let the light of Ossian’s soul arise!

“And it does arise in its strength!  I behold my departed friends.  Their gathering is on Lora, as in the days of other years.  Fingal comes like a watery column of mist! his heroes are around:  and see the bards of song, gray-haired Ullin! stately Ryno!  Alpin with the tuneful voice:  the soft complaint of Minona!  How are ye changed, my friends, since the days of Selma’s feast! when we contended, like gales of spring as they fly along the hill, and bend by turns the feebly whistling grass.

“Minona came forth in her beauty, with downcast look and tearful eye.  Her hair was flying slowly with the blast that rushed unfrequent from the hill.  The souls of the heroes were sad when she raised the tuneful voice.  Oft had they seen the grave of Salgar, the dark dwelling of white-bosomed Colma.  Colma left alone on the hill with all her voice of song!  Salgar promised to come! but the night descended around.  Hear the voice of Colma, when she sat alone on the hill!

“Colma.  It is night:  I am alone, forlorn on the hill of storms.  The wind is heard on the mountain.  The torrent is howling down the rock.  No hut receives me from the rain:  forlorn on the hill of winds!

“Rise moon! from behind thy clouds.  Stars of the night, arise!  Lead me, some light, to the place where my love rests from the chase alone!  His bow near him unstrung, his dogs panting around him!  But here I must sit alone by the rock of the mossy stream.  The stream and the wind roar aloud.  I hear not the voice of my love!  Why delays my Salgar; why the chief of the hill his promise?  Here is the rock and here the tree! here is the roaring stream!  Thou didst promise with night to be here.  Ah! whither is my Salgar gone?  With thee I would fly from my father, with thee from my brother of pride.  Our race have long been foes:  we are not foes, O Salgar!