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Poem by William Wordsworth


Glen Almain; Or, 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 heaped, 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?ЧI blame them not
Whose fancy in this lonely spot	
Was moved; and in such way expressed
Their notion of its perfect rest.
A convent, even a hermitТs cell,
Would break the silence of this Dell:
It is not quiet, it 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.



William Wordsworth


William Wordsworth's other poems:
  1. Monastery of Old Bangor
  2. To the Lady Eleanor Butler and the Hon. Miss Ponsonby
  3. Mona
  4. Miserrimus
  5. The Brownie


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