[231] May Not I Also Say, With Ossian, 'Why Art Thou Sad, Son Of Fingal!

Why grows the cloud of thy soul!

The sons of future years shall pass away, another race shall arise! The people are like the waves of the ocean, like the leaves of woody Morven - they pass away in the rustling blast, and other leaves lift their green heads on high.'

"After all, why, indeed, yield up my soul in sadness? The children of the coming generation will pass rapidly, and a new one will take its place! Men are like the surges of the ocean, they resemble the leaves which hang over the groves of my manor, autumnal storms cause them to fall, but new and equally green ones each spring replace the fallen ones. Why should I sorrow? Eighty-six children, grand-children, and great-grand-children, will mourn the fell of the old oak when the breach of the Almighty shall smite it. Should I have the good fortune to find mercy before the Sovereign Judge: should it be vouchsafed to me to meet again the angel of virtue who cheered the few happy days I passed in this vale of sorrow, we will both pray together for the numerous progeny we left behind us. But let us revert to the merry meeting previously alluded to. It is half-past two in the afternoon, we are gaily going through the figures of a country-dance, 'Speed the plough' perhaps, when the music stops short, everyone is taken aback, and wonders at the cause of interruption.

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