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lxviii probably more important kind of truth the work of both bards may be considered absolutely reliable. The Iliad and the Ossianic poems present a general but genuine picture of the civilisation in the countries and at the time in which they were composed.

After all, the chief assurance of immortality for these "tales of the times of old" must rest upon their own sublimity and beauty. There may long be those who doubt the existence of Ossian; but none will deny that in these pages are to be found passages unsurpassed in majesty and hardly equalled in tenderness. What could there be more full of pathos than Ossian's frequent address to Malvina, the betrothed of his dead son Oscar, and the companion of his own old age? And what in literature is nobler than the bard's apostrophe to the splendours of heaven, or his lament at the tombs of heroes?—"Weep, thou father of Morar! weep; but thy son heareth thee not. Deep is the sleep of the dead; low their pillow of dust. No more shall he hear thy voice, no more awake at thy call. When shall it be morn in the grave, to bid the slumberer awake? Farewell, thou bravest of men."—(Songs of Selma.)

Ossian is not the only bard whose glory appears a marvel to these later days. Out of the dim past, booming like the surge of ocean, still rolls many a