Behold her, single in the field,

        Yon solitary Highland Lass!

        Reaping and singing by herself;

        Stop here, or gently pass!

        Alone she cuts, and binds the grain,

        And sings a melancholy strain;

        O listen! for the Vale profound

        Is overflowing with the sound.

        No Nightingale did ever chaunt

        So sweetly to reposing bands

        Of Travellers in some shady haunt,

        Among Arabian Sands:

        No sweeter voice was ever heard

        In spring-time from the Cuckoo-bird,

        Breaking the silence of the seas

        Among the farthest Hebrides.

        Will no one tell me what she sings?

        Perhaps the plaintive numbers flow

        For old, unhappy, far-off things,

        And battles long ago:

        Or is it some more humble lay,

        Familiar matter of today?

        Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain,

        That has been, and may be again!

        Whate'er the theme, the Maiden sung

        As if her song could have no ending;

        I saw her singing at her work,

        And o'er the sickle bending;

        I listen'd till I had my fill;

        And, as I mounted up the hill,

        The music in my heart I bore,

        Long after it was heard no more.

        "What you are stepping westward?" – "Yea."

        – 'Twould be a wildish destiny,

        If we, who thus together roam

        In a strange Land, and far from home,

        Were in this place the guests of Chance:

        Yet who would stop, or fear to advance,

        Though home or shelter he had none,

        With such a Sky to lead him on?

        The dewy ground was dark and cold;

        Behind, all gloomy to behold;

        And stepping westward seem'd to be

        A kind of heavenly destiny;

        I liked the greeting; 'twas a sound

        Of something without place or bound;

        And seem'd to give me spiritual right

        To travel through that region bright.

        The voice was soft, and she who spake

        Was walking by her native Lake:

        The salutation had to me

        The very sound of courtesy:

        It's power was felt; and while my eye

        Was fixed upon the glowing sky,

        The echo of the voice enwrought

        A human sweetness with the thought

        Of travelling through the world that lay

        Before me in my endless way.

        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 sudely heap'd, and rent

        As by a spirit turbulent;

        Where sights were rough, and sounds were wild,

        And every thing 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 this way express'd

        Their notion of it's 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

        And happy feelings of the dead:

        And, therefore, was it rightly said

        That Ossian, last of all his race!

        Lies buried in this lonely place.

        Age! twine thy brows with fresh spring flowers!

        And call a train of laughing Hours;

        And bid them dance, and bid them sing;

        And Thou, too, mingle in the Ring!

        Take to thy heart a new delight;

        If not, make merry in despite!

        For there is one who scorns thy power.

        – But dance! for under Jedborough Tower

        There liveth in the prime of glee,

        A Woman, whose years are