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Those who have doubted my veracity have paid a compliment to my genius.
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James Macpherson |
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Often does the memory of former times come, like the evening sun, on my soul.
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James Macpherson |
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Sorrow, like a cloud on the sun, shades the soul of Clessammor.
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James Macpherson |
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The music was like the memory of joys that are past, pleasant and mournful to the soul.
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James Macpherson |
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Where art thou, beam of light? Hunters, from the mossy rock, saw ye the blue-eyed fair?
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James Macpherson |
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Can I forget that beam of light, the white-handed daughter of kings?
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James Macpherson |
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The gloom of the battle roared.
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James Macpherson |
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Hail, Carril of other times! Thy voice is like the harp in the halls of Tura.
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James Macpherson |