Translators From Scotland

"The people bend before me. I turn the battle in the field of the brave. I look on the nations, and they vanish: my nostrils pour the blast of death. I come abroad on the winds: the tempests are before my face. But my dwelling is calm, above the clouds; the fields of my rest are pleasant."

"They stood in silence, in their beauty: like two young trees of the plain, when the shower of spring is on their leaves, and the loud winds are laid."

"Sorrow, like a cloud on the sun, shades the soul of Clessammor."

"O thou that rollest above, round as the shield of my fathers! Whence are thy beams, O sun! thy everlasting light? Thou comest forth in thy awful beauty; the stars hide themselves in the sky; the moon, cold and pale, sinks in the western wave; but thou thyself movest alone. Who can be a companion of thy course? The oaks of the mountains fall; the mountains themselves decay with years; the ocean shrinks and grows again; the moon herself is lost in heaven: but thou art for ever the same, rejoicing in the brightness of thy course. When the world is dark with tempests, when thunder rolls and lightning flies, thou lookest in thy beauty from the clouds, and laughest at the storm. But to Ossian thou lookest in vain, for he beholds thy beams no more: whether thy yellow hair flows on the eastern clouds, or thou tremblest at the gates of the west. But thou art, perhaps, like me, for a season; thy years will have an end. Thou shalt sleep in thy clouds, careless of the voice of the morning. Exult then, O sun, in the strength of thy youth!"

"The music was like the memory of joys that are past, pleasant and mournful to the soul."

"Whither hast thou fled, O wind?" said the king of Morven. "Dost thou rustle in the chambers of the south? pursuest thou the shower in other lands? Why dost thou not come to my sails? to the blue face of my seas?"

"I was a lovely tree, in thy presence, Oscar, with all my branches round me; but thy death came like a blast from the desert, and laid my green head low."

"Why should Ossian sing of battles? For never more shall my steel shine in war. I remember the days of my youth with grief, when I feel the weakness of my arm. Happy are they who fell in their youth, in the midst of their renown! They have not beheld the tombs of their friends, or failed to bend the bow of their strength."

"O lay me, ye that see the light, near some rock of my hills! let the thick hazels be around, let the rustling oak be near. Green be the place of my rest; let the sound of the distant torrent be heard. Daughter of Toscar, take the harp, and raise the lovely song of Selma, that sleep may overtake my soul in the midst of joy; that the dreams of my youth may return, and the days of the mighty Fingal."

"Star of descending night! fair is thy light in the west! thou liftest thy unshorn head from thy cloud: thy steps are stately on thy hill. What dost thou behold in the plain? The stormy winds are laid. The murmur of the torrent comes from afar. Roaring waves climb the distant rock. The flies of evening are on their feeble wings; the hum of their course is on the field. What dost thou behold, fair light? But thou dost smile and depart. The waves come with joy around thee: they bathe thy lovely hair. Farewell, thou silent beam! Let the light of Ossian's soul arise!"

"The stream and the wind roar aloud. I hear not the voice of my love! Why delays my Salgar, why the chief of the hill, his promise? Here is the rock, and here the tree! here is the roaring stream! Thou didst promise with night to be here. Ah! whither is my Salgar gone? With thee I would fly from my father; with thee, from my brother of pride."

"My tears, O Ryno! are for the dead; my voice for those that have passed away. Tall thou art on the hill; fair among the sons of the vale. But thou shalt fall like Morar; the mourner shall sit on thy tomb. The hills shall know thee no more; thy bow shall lie in thy hall, unstrung! Thou wert swift, O Morar! as a roe on the desert; terrible as a meteor of fire. Thy wrath was as the storm. Thy sword in battle, as lightning in the field. Thy voice was a stream after rain; like thunder on distant hills. Many fell by thy arm; they were consumed in the flames of thy wrath. But when thou didst return from war, how peaceful was thy brow! Thy face was like the sun after rain; like the moon in the silence of night; calm as the breast of the lake when the loud wind is laid. Narrow is thy dwelling now! dark the place of thine abode! With three steps I compass thy grave, O thou who wast so great before. Four stones, with their heads of moss, are the only memorial of thee. A tree with scarce a leaf, long grass, which whistles in the wind, mark to the hunter's eye the grave of the mighty Morar."

"Far before the rest, the son of Ossian comes; bright in the smiles of youth, fair as the first beams of the sun. His long hair waves on his back: his dark brows are half hid beneath his helmet of steel. His sword hangs loose on the hero's side. His spear glitters as he moves. I fled from his terrible eyes, King of high Temora!"

"Where art thou, beam of light? Hunters, from the mossy rock, saw ye the blue-eyed fair?"

"Then rose the strife of kings about the hill of night; but it was soft as two summer gales, shaking their light wings on a lake."

"Can I forget that beam of light, the white-handed daughter of kings?"

"Whence is the stream of years? Whither do they roll along? Where have they hid, in mist, their many-coloured sides? I look into the times of old, but they seem dim to Ossian's eyes, like reflected moon-beams, on a distant lake."

"I look down from my height on nations And they become ashes before me."

"I beheld their chief, tall as a glittering rock. His spear is a blasted pine. His shield the rising moon! He sat on the shore, like a cloud of mist on the silent hill!"

"As autumn's dark storms pour from two echoing hills, toward each other approached the heroes.—As two dark streams from high rocks meet, and mix and roar on the plain; loud, rough and dark in battle met Lochlin and Innis-fail. Chief mixed his strokes with chief, and man with man; steel, clanging, sounded on steel, helmets are cleft on high. Blood bursts and smokes around. ... As the troubled noise of the ocean when roll the waves on high; as the last peal of the thunder of heaven, such is the noise of battle."

"About Douglas as a translator there may be two opinions; about his Aeneid (Prologues and all) as an English book there can be only one. Here a great story is greatly told and set off with original embellishments which are all good – all either delightful or interesting – in their diverse ways."

"Woddis, forrestis, with nakyt bewis blowt, Stude strippyt of thar weid in every howt. So bustuusly Boreas his bugill blew, The deyr full dern doun in the dalis drew; Smale byrdis, flokkand throu thik ronys thrang, In chyrmyng and with cheping changit thar sang, Sekand hidlis and hyrnys thame to hyde Fra feirfull thuddis of the tempestuus tyde."

"Dame naturis menstralis."

"And al smail fowlys syngis on the spray: Welcum the lord of lycht, and lamp of day."

"As to the text accordyng never a deill, Mair than langis to the cart the fift quheill."

"Gavin Douglas, set on a particular labour, with his mind full of Latin quantitative metre, attains a robuster versification than you are likely to find in Chaucer…the texture of Gavin's verse is stronger, the resilience greater."

"Arguably the best version of Virgil in English poetry."

"Ryveris ran reid on spait with watir broune, And burnys hurlys all thar bankis doune."

"It is richt facil and eith gait, I the tell, Forto discend and pas on down to hell: The blak gettis of Pluto, and that dirk way, Standis evir oppin and patent nycht and day; Bot tharfra to return agane on hyght, And heir abufe recovir this aris licht, That is difficil wark, thar lawbour lyis."

"The battellis and the man I will discriue, Fra Troyis boundis first that fugitiue By fate to Italie come and coist lauyne, Ouer land and se cachit with meikill pyne By force of goddis aboue fra euery stede Of cruel luno throw auld remembrit feid: Grete payne in batelles sufferit he also, Or he his goddis brocht in Latio And belt the ciete, fra quham of nobil fame The latyne peopill taken has thare name, And eke the faderis, princis of Alba, Come, and the walleris of grete Rome alsua."

"Bot a sentens to follow may suffice me: Sum tyme I follow the text als neir I may, Sum tyme I am constrenyt ane other way."

"Fyrst I protest, beaw schirris, by зour leif Beis weill avisit my wark or зhe reprief; Consider it warly, reid oftar than anys, Weill at a blenk sle poetry nocht tayn is."

"A very worthy man, and I really think a true poetical genius."

"I have had occasion lately to look into Mickle's translation of the Lusiad. It is easily and gracefully versified, but properly speaking is not a translation, but a very free paraphrase, or rifacimento of the original. I have been amazed to find what long passages of his own the writer has interpolated into the work. He does not even follow the division into stanzas, but recasts the whole into English couplets. This, to me, is a fatal error."

"I am glad, Sir, it has fallen into your hands."

"Who that has read the late Mr. Mickle's version of the Lusiad, but must wish he had turned his thoughts to the Æneid? He would probably have had the same success with Virgil as with Camoens."

"His manners were not of that obtrusive kind by which many men of the second or third order force themselves into notice. A very close observer might have passed many hours in Mr. Mickle's company without suspecting that he had ever written a line of poetry. [...] When his name was announced, he has been more than once asked if the translator of Camoens was any relation to him. To this he usually answered, with a good-natured smile, that they were of the same family. Simplicity, unaffected simplicity, was the leading feature in his character. The philosophy of Voltaire and David Hume was his detestation. He could not hear their names with temper. For the Bible he had the highest reverence, and never sat silent when the doctrines or precepts of the Gospel were either ridiculed or spoken of with contempt."

"The Epic powers of Camoens have received their due honour in our language, by the elegant and spirited translation of Mr. Mickle."

"The Lusiad is best known in England by the translation of Mickle, who has been thought to have done something more than justice to his author, both by the unmeasured eulogies he bestows upon him, and by the more substantial service of excelling the original in his unfaithful delineation. The style of Mickle is certainly more poetical, according to our standard, than that of Camoens, that is, more figurative and emphatic; but it seems to me replenished with commonplace phrases, and wanting in the facility and sweetness of the original; in which it is well known that he has interpolated a great deal without a pretence."

"There's nae luck about the house...is positively the finest love ballad in that style in the Scottish or perhaps any other language."

"If any author has recovered the freedom of Dryden, without losing the harmony or the force of Pope, it is Mickle, in some parts of his excellent translation of the Lusiad."

"The death-bell thrice was heard to ring, An aerial voice was heard to call, And thrice the raven flapp'd its wing Around the towers of Cumnor Hall."

"And ere the dawn of day appear'd, In Cumnor Hall, so lone and drear, Full many a piercing scream was heard, And many a cry of mortal fear."

"Leicester," she cried, "is this thy love That thou so oft hast sworn to me, To leave me in this lonely grove, Immured in shameful privity?"No more thou com'st with lover's speed, Thy once beloved bride to see; But be she alive, or be she dead, I fear, stern Earl, 's the same to thee."Not so the usage I received When happy in my father's hall; No faithless husband then me grieved, No chilling fears did me appall."I rose up with the cheerful morn, No lark more blithe, no flower more gay; And like the bird that haunts the thorn, So merrily sung the livelong day."If that my beauty is but small, Among court ladies all despised, Why didst thou rend it from that hall, Where, scornful Earl, it well was prized?"

"The dews of summer night did fall; The moon, sweet regent of the sky, Silvered the walls of Cumnor Hall And many an oak that grew thereby."

"The moon, full-orbed, forsakes her watery cave, And lifts her lovely head above the wave; The snowy splendours of her modest ray Stream o'er the glistening waves, and quivering play; Around her, glittering on the heaven's arched brow, Unnumbered stars, enclosed in azure, glow, Thick as the dew-drops of the April dawn, Or May-flowers crowding o'er the daisy lawn; The canvas whitens in the silvery beam, And with a mild pale-red the pendants gleam; The masts' tall shadows tremble o'er the deep; The peaceful winds a holy silence keep; The watchman's carol, echoed from the prows, Alone, at times, awakes the still repose."

"Nor let the critic, if he find the meaning of Camoens in some instances altered, imagine that he has found a blunder in the Translator. ... It was not to gratify the dull few, whose greatest pleasure in reading a translation is to see what the author exactly says; it was to give a poem that might live in the English language which was the ambition of the Translator. ... And the original is in the hands of the world."

"None but a poet can translate a poet."

"The present moment is our ain, The neist we never saw!"

"There, where the cross in hoary ruin nods, And weeping yews o'ershade the lettered stones, While midnight silence wraps these dark abodes, And soothes me wand'ring o'er my kindred bones, Let kindled fancy view the glorious morn, When from the bursting graves the dust shall rise, All nature smiling, and, by angels borne, Messiah's cross, far blazing o'er the skies."