Homer and Ossian

Where are the Greeks? and where the Celtic race?Gone! They have left no trace:Where are the ancient cities which the floodsHave turned to solitudes?Two pillars tower aloft—but to declareWhat glorious things there were!Two grand memorials of the antique man—Homer and Ossian!One was a beggar, one of royal blood—In contrast strange they stood;Yet common links their varied histories bind,For both were blind!And did their fiery spirits steal their sightTo fill their brains with light;Or was that light absorbed in the bright flameOf their eternal fame?They were grand souls, with magic handThey smote the lute, and filled the listening landAs with new messages from God; their armOf power was a resistless witchery's charm;Their wonder-waking influences raised up trainsOf wonderers waking at th' impassioned strains—Hear Homer! hear!His music agitates the heavenly sphere;His brightness from the east is bursting, broughtWestward in currents of harmonious thought,As the day's dawning and the sunbeam's light,Like molten steel in streams and cataracts brightThey move the Ægean ocean in their flow—With greenness gild the Archipelago;Bring men and gods together, and above,Both gods and men spread canopies of love.And there is Ossian!He sits among the mists—the shadowy man!O'er the north-ocean—and his harmoniesBlend with the wild winds and the raging seasUnder the clouded, the mysterious moon,Which rises, and usurps the sun's abandoned throne;A visible darkness o'er the wide, wide wasteStretches its covering—and the night birds, chasedBy the fierce tempest, fly—while hero-ghostsStalk o'er the field where erst the battle hostsClashed and were scattered—all that's grand and glowing,All that is bright, and beautiful, and flowing,White-headed beggar, Homer! all is thine!The grey, the dark, the strange, the misty throngOf shadows, are the enchantments of thy song,Ossian! of kingly line!Then sing, still sing—mount higher, upwards, higher,Smite the lute loudly—smite the golden lyre;Homer and Ossian!Listening to you centuries on centuries ran,And centuries still shall run,Long as the morning's waking sees the sun,Long as the earth shall hail its waking; timeHas stamped its sanction, sacred and sublime,Upon your sovereignty,—High above death—above mortalityYe raise your noble foreheads glory-crowned,And countless ages worship all around.