_THIRD EDITION._

She came; she found her hero:--silent she roll’d her sad eyes; she was pale as a watry cloud that rises from the lake to the beam of the moon. Few were her days on Cona.-- -- -- -- -- Her soul was fixed on Oscar; the son of Caruth was the youth of her love. She forgot the blood of her father, and loved the hand that slew him!

OSSIAN.

_LONDON_: PRINTED FOR T. CADELL AND W. DAVIES, STRAND.

1807.

THE

LIBERTINE.