Pomposo, insolent and loud,
  Vain idol of a scribbling crowd,
  Whose very name inspires an awe,
  Whose every word is sense and law,
  For what his greatness hath decreed,
  Like laws of Persia and of Mede,
  Sacred through all the realm of wit,
  Must never of repeal admit;
  Who, cursing flattery, is the tool
  Of every fawning, flattering fool;
  Who wit with jealous eye surveys,
  And sickens at another’s praise;
  Who, proudly seized of learning’s throne,
  Now damns all learning but his own;
  Who scorns those common wares to trade in,
  Reasoning, convincing, and persuading,
  But makes each sentence current pass
  With ‘puppy,’ ‘coxcomb,’ ‘scoundrel,’ ‘ass,’
  For ’tis with him a certain rule,
  The folly’s proved when he calls ‘fool’;
  Who, to increase his native strength,
  Draws words six syllables in length,
  With which, assisted with a frown
  By way of club, he knocks us down.

  JAMES MACPHERSON

  ["TRANSLATIONS” FROM “OSSIAN, THE SON OF FINGAL”]

  FROM FINGAL, AN EPIC POEM

  [FINGAL’S ROMANTIC GENEROSITY TOWARD HIS CAPTIVE ENEMY]

‘King of Lochlin,’ said Fingal, ’thy blood flows in the veins of thy foe.  Our fathers met in battle, because they loved the strife of spears.  But often did they feast in the hall, and send round the joy of the shell.  Let thy face brighten with gladness, and thine ear delight in the harp.  Dreadful as the storm of thine ocean, thou hast poured thy valour forth; thy voice has been like the voice of thousands when they engage in war.  Raise, to-morrow, raise thy white sails to the wind, thou brother of Agandecca!  Bright as the beam of noon, she comes on my mournful soul.  I have seen thy tears for the fair one.  I spared thee in the halls of Starno, when my sword was red with slaughter, when my eye was full of tears for the maid.  Or dost thou choose the fight?  The combat which thy fathers gave to Trenmor is thine! that thou mayest depart renowned, like the sun setting in the west!’

‘King of the race of Morven!’ said the chief of resounding Lochlin, ’never will Swaran fight with thee, first of a thousand heroes!  I have seen thee in the halls of Starno:  few were thy years beyond my own.  When shall I, I said to my soul, lift the spear like the noble Fingal?  We have fought heretofore, O warrior, on the side of the shaggy Malmor; after my waves had carried me to thy halls, and the feast of a thousand shells was spread.  Let the bards send his name who overcame to future years, for noble was the strife of Malmour!  But many of the ships of Lochlin have lost their youths on Lena.  Take these, thou king of Morven, and be the friend of Swaran!  When thy sons shall come to Gormal, the feast of shells shall be spread, and the combat offered on the vale.’

‘Nor ship’ replied the king, ’shall Fingal take, nor land of many hills.