Book 4 — CCCXXV GLEN-ALMAIN, THE NARROW GLEN

In this still place, remote from men, Sleeps Ossian, in the Narrow Glen; In this still place, where murmurs on But one meek streamlet, only one: He sang of battles, and the breath Of stormy war, and violent death; And should, methinks, when all was past, Have rightfully been laid at last Where rocks were rudely heap'd, and rent As by a spirit turbulent; Where sights were rough, and sounds were wild, And everything unreconciled; In some complaining, dim retreat, For fear and melancholy meet; But this is calm; there cannot be A more entire tranquillity. Does then the Bard sleep here indeed? Or is it but a groundless creed? What matters it?—I blame them not Whose fancy in this lonely spot Was moved; and in such way express'd Their notion of its perfect rest. A convent, even a hermit's cell, Would break the silence of this Dell: It is not quiet, is not ease; But something deeper far than these; The separation that is here Is of the grave; and of austere Yet happy feelings of the dead: And, therefore, was it rightly said That Ossian, last of all his race! Lies buried in this lonely place.