The poems of Ossian, tr. by J. Macpherson. Blair's critical dissertations, 第 2 巻1806 |
この書籍内から
検索結果1-5 / 67
13 ページ
... faces of ghosts . So fierce , so vast , so terrible rushed on the sons of Erin . The chief like a whale of ocean , whom all ... face of the heath ! ” Highlanders , that the souls of the deceased hovered round their living friends ; and ...
... faces of ghosts . So fierce , so vast , so terrible rushed on the sons of Erin . The chief like a whale of ocean , whom all ... face of the heath ! ” Highlanders , that the souls of the deceased hovered round their living friends ; and ...
16 ページ
... 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 ! Though Cormac's hundred bards were there , to give the fight to song ; feeble was 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 ! Though Cormac's hundred bards were there , to give the fight to song ; feeble was the ...
22 ページ
... face from the rock to find the sails of Cuthullin ? The sea is rolling distant far ; its white foam deceives thee for my sails . Retire , for it is night , my love ; the dark winds sing in thy hair . Retire to the halls of my feasts ...
... face from the rock to find the sails of Cuthullin ? The sea is rolling distant far ; its white foam deceives thee for my sails . Retire , for it is night , my love ; the dark winds sing in thy hair . Retire to the halls of my feasts ...
24 ページ
... face is like the beam of the setting moon . His robes are of the clouds of the hill . His eyes are two decaying flames . Dark is the wound of his breast ! " Crugal , " said the mighty Connal , son of Dedgal famed on the hill of hinds ...
... face is like the beam of the setting moon . His robes are of the clouds of the hill . His eyes are two decaying flames . Dark is the wound of his breast ! " Crugal , " said the mighty Connal , son of Dedgal famed on the hill of hinds ...
37 ページ
... face was the mildness of youth . His hand the death of heroes . One was his love , and fair was she ! the daughter of mighty Conloch . She appeared like a sun - beam among women . Her hair was the wing of the raven . Her dogs were ...
... face was the mildness of youth . His hand the death of heroes . One was his love , and fair was she ! the daughter of mighty Conloch . She appeared like a sun - beam among women . Her hair was the wing of the raven . Her dogs were ...
多く使われている語句
arms art thou Atha bards battle beam behold bend blast blood blue blue streams Cairbar Calmar car-borne Carril Cathmor cave chace chief Clono cloud Cona Connal Cormac Cromla Cuthullin Dar-thula dark dark-brown darkened daugh daughter death dost thou echoing Erin Erin's eyes fame fathers feast feeble fell field fight Fillan Fingal Firbolg Foldath friends Gaul ghosts gleaming grey grief hair hall harp hear heard heath heroes hill king of Ireland king of Morven Lathmon Lego Lena lift light Lochlin Lubar maid Malthos midst mighty mist Moi-lena Mora Morni mournful Nathos night Oscar Ossian poem renown rise roar rock roes rolled rose rush Ryno Selma Semo shield side sigh silent song sons soul sound spear steel steps storm stream Strutha Sul-malla Swaran sword tears Temora thee thine Thou art tomb Torman Trenmor Ullin Usnoth Uthal vale voice warriors waves wind youth
人気のある引用
56 ページ - O Oscar ! bend the strong in arm : but spare the feeble hand. Be thou a stream of many tides against the foes of thy people ; but like the gale that moves the grass, to those who ask thine aid. So Trenmor lived ; such Trathal was ; and such has Fingal been. My arm was the support of the injured ; the weak rested behind the lightning of my steel.
9 ページ - Cromla echoes round. On Lena's dusky heath they stand, like mist that shades the hills of autumn; when broken and dark it settles high, and lifts its head to heaven. "Hail!
15 ページ - < to the souls of the heroes ! their deeds were great in fight. Let them ride around ine on clouds. Let them show their features of war. My soul shall then be firm in danger ; mine arm like the thunder of heaven! But be thou on a moonbeam, O Morna ! near the window of my rest ; when my thoughts are of peace ; when the din of arms is past.
167 ページ - The blue waves of Ullin roll in light. The green hills are covered with day. Trees shake their dusky heads in the breeze. Grey torrents pour their noisy streams. Two green hills with aged oaks surround a narrow plain. The blue course of a stream is there. On its banks stood Cairbar of Atha. His spear supports the king; the red eyes of his fear are sad. Cormac rises on his soul with all his ghastly wounds.
318 ページ - I passed, O son of Fingal, by Tor-lutha's mossy walls. The smoke of the hall was ceased. Silence was among the trees of the hill. The voice of the chase was over. I saw the daughters of the bow. I asked about Malvina, but they answered not. They turned their faces away: thin darkness covered their beauty. They were like stars, on a rainy hill, by night, each looking faintly through her mist.
17 ページ - When fled Swaran from the battle of spears? When did I shrink from danger, chief of the little soul? I met the storm of Gormal, when the foam of my waves beat high. I met the storm of the clouds; shall Swaran fly from a hero? Were Fingal himself before me, my soul should not darken with fear. Arise to battle, my thousands! pour round me like the echoing main. Gather round the bright steel of your king; strong as the rocks of my land; that meet the storm with joy, and stretch their dark pines to the...
287 ページ - Son of Alpin, strike the string. Is there aught of joy in the harp? Pour it then on the soul of Ossian: It is folded in mist. I hear thee, O bard ! in my night. But cease the lightly-trembling sound.
276 ページ - Lara's stream, is poured the vapour dark and deep : the moon, like a dim shield, is swimming through its folds. With this clothe the spirits of old their sudden gestures on the wind, when they stride, from blast to blast, along the dusky night. Often, blended with the gale, to some warrior's grave,* they roll the mist, a grey dwelling to his ghost, until the songs arise.