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!