Why bend to the proud, or applaud the absurd? Why search for delight in the friendship of fools?

I have tasted the sweets and the bitters of love;
In friendship I early was taught to believe;
My passion the matrons of prudence reprove;
I have found that a friend may profess, yet
deceive.

To me what is wealth?-it may pass in an hour,
If tyrants prevail, or if Fortune should frown:
To me what is title?-the phantom of power;
To me what is fashion?-I seek but renown.
Deceit is a stranger as yet to my soul:

I still am unpractised to varnish the truth: Then why should I live in a hateful control! Why waste upon folly the days of my youth?

morn.

THE DEATH OF CALMAR AND ORLA. AN IMITATION OF MACPHERSON'S OSSIAN.* DEAR are the days of youth! Age dwells on their remembrance through the mist of time. In the twilight he recalls the sunny hours of He lifts his spear with trembling hand. "Not thus feebly did I raise the steel before my fathers!" Past is the race of heroes. But their fame rises on the harp; their souls ride on the wings of the wind; they hear the sound through the sighs of the storm, and rejoice in their hall of clouds! Such is Calmar. The grey stone marks his narrow house. He looks down from eddying tempests: he rolls his form in the whirlwind, and hovers on the blast of the mountain.

In Morven dwelt the chief; a beam of war to Fingal. His steps in the field were marked in blood. Lochlin's sons had fled before his angry spear: but mild was the eye of Calmar; soft was the flow of his yellow locks: they streamed like the meteor of the night. No maid was the sigh of his soul: his thoughts were given to friendship,-to dark-haired Orla, destroyer of heroes! Equal were their swords in battle; but fierce was the pride of Orla :-gentle alone to Calmar. Together they dwelt in the cave of Oithona.

From Lochlin, Swaran bounded o'er the blue waves. Erin's sons fell beneath his might. Fingal roused his chiefs to combat. Their ships cover the ocean. Their hosts throng on the green hills. They come to the aid of Erin. Night rose in clouds. Darkness veils the armies: but the blazing oaks gleam through the valley. The sons of Lochlin slept: their dreams were of blood. They lift the spear in thought, and Fingal flies. Not so the host of Morven. To watch was the post of Orla. Calmar stood by his side. Their spears were in their hands. Fingal called his chiefs: they stood around. The king was in the midst. Grey were his locks, but strong was the arm of the king. Age withered not his powers. "Sons of Morven," said the hero, "to-morrow we meet the foe. But where is Cuthullin the shield of Erin? He rests in the halls of Tura; he knows not of our

*This story, though considerably varied in the catastrophe, is taken from Nisus and Euryalus, of which episode a translation is already given.

coming. Who will speed through Lochlin to the hero, and call the chief to arms? The path is by the swords of foes; but many are my heroes. They are thunderbolts of war. Speak, ye chiefs! Who will arise?"

If I

"Son of Trenmor! mine be the deed," said death to me? I love the sleep of the mighty, dark-haired Orla, "and mine alone. What is but little is the danger. The sons of Lochlin dream. I will seek car-borne Cuthullin. fall, raise the song of bards; and lay me by the stream of Lubar."-" And shalt thou fall alone?"" said fair-haired Calmar. "Wilt thou leave thy friend afar? Chief of Oithona! not feeble is my arm in fight. Could I see thee die, and not lift the spear? No, Orla! ours has been the chase of the roebuck, and the feasts of shells; ours be the path of danger: ours has been the cave of Oithona; ours be the narrow dwelling on the banks of Lubar." "Calmar," said the chief of Oithona, "why should thy yellow locks be darkened in the dust of Erin? Let me fall alone. My father dwells in his hall of air: he will rejoice in his boy; but the blue-eyed Mora spreads the feast for her son in Morven. She listens to the steps of the hunter on the heath, and thinks it is the tread of Calmar. Let her not say, Calmar has fallen by the steel of Lochlin: he died with gloomy Òrla, the chief of the dark brow.' Why should tears dim the azure eye of Mora? Why should her voice curse Orla, the destroyer of Calmar? Live, Calmar! Live to raise my stone of moss; live to revenge me in the blood of Lochlin. Join the song of bards above my grave. Sweet will be the song of death to Orla from the voice of Calmar. My ghost shall smile on the notes of praise." "Orla," said the son of Mora,

could I raise the song of death to my friend? Could I give his fame to the winds? No, my heart would speak in sighs: faint and broken are the sounds of sorrow. Orla! our souls shall hear the song together. One cloud shall be ours on high: the bards will mingle the names of Orla and Calmar."

They quit the circle of the chiefs. Their steps are to the host of Lochlin. The dying blaze of oak dim twinkles through the night. The northern star points the path to Tura. Swaran, the king, rests on his lonely hill. Here the troops are mixed: they frown in sleep; their shields 'beneath their heads. Their swords gleam at distance in heaps. The fires are faint: their embers fail in smoke. All is hush'd; but the gale sighs on the rocks above. Lightly wheel the heroes through the slumbering band. Half the journey is past, when Mathon, resting on his shield, meets the eye of Orla. It rolls in flame, and glistens through the shade. His spear is raised on high. "Why dost thou bend thy brow, chief of Orthona?" said fair-haired Calmar: we are in the midst of foes. Is this a time for delay?" "It is a time for vengeance," said Orla of the gloomy brow. "Mathon of Lochlin sleeps: seest thou his spear! Its point is dim with the gore of my father. The blood of Mathon shall reek on mine; but shall I slay him sleeping, son of Mora? No! he shall feel his wound: my fame shall not soar on the blood of slumber. Rise, Mathon, rise! The son of Conna calls; thy life is his:

"

rise to combat." Mathon starts from sleep; but did he rise alone? No; the gathering chiefs bound on the plain. Fly! Calmar, fly!" said dark-haired Örla. "Mathon is mine: I shall die in joy: but Lochlin crowds around. Fly through the shade of night." Orla turns. The helm of Mathon is cleft; his shield falls from his arm: he shudders in his blood. He rolls by the side of the blazing oak. Strumon sees him fall: his wrath rises: his weapon glitters on the head of Orla: but a spear pierced his eye.

His brain gushes through the wound, and foams on the spear of Calmar. As roll the waves of the ocean on two mighty barks of the north, so pour the men of Lochlin on the chiefs. As, breaking the surge in foam, proudly steer the barks of the north, so rise the chiefs of Morven on the scattered crests of Lochlin. The din of arms came to the ear of Fingal. He strikes his shield; his sons throng around; the people pour along the heath. Ryno bounds in joy. Ossian stalks in his arms. Oscar shakes the spear. The eagle wing of Fillan floats on the wind. Dreadful is the clang of death! many are the widows of Lochlin! Morven prevails in its strength.

Morn glimmers on the hills: no living foe is seen; but the sleepers are many; grim they lie on Erin. The breeze of ocean lifts their locks; yet they do not awake. The hawks scream above their prey.

Whose yellow locks wave o'er the breast of a chief? Bright as the gold of the stranger, they mingle with the dark hair of his friend. "Tis Calmar: he lies on the bosom of Orla. Theirs is one stream of blood. Fierce is the look of the gloomy Orla. He breathes not; but his eye is still a flame. It glares in death unclosed. His hand is grasped in Calmar's; but Calmar lives! he lives, though low. "Rise," said the king, "rise, son of Mora: 'tis mine to heal the wounds of heroes. Calmár may yet bound on the hills of Morven."

"Never more shall Calmar chase the deer of Morven with Orla," said the hero. "What were the chase to me alone? Who should share the spoils of battle with Calmar? Orla is at rest! Rough was thy soul, Orla! yet soft to me as the dew of morn. It glared on others in lightning: to me a silver beam of night. Bear my sword to blue-eyed Mora: let it hang in my empty hall. It is not pure from blood: but it could not save Orla. Lay me with my friend. Raise the song when I am dark!”

Four

They are laid by the stream of Lubar. grey stones mark the dwelling of Orla and Calmar. When Swaran was bound, our sails rose on the blue waves. The winds gave our barks to Morven :-the bards raised the song.

"What form rises on the roar of clouds? Whose dark ghost gleams on the red streams of tempests? His voice rolls on the thunder. 'Tis Orla, the brown chief of Oithona. He was unmatched in war. Peace to thy soul, Orla! thy fame will not perish. Nor thine, Calmar! Lovely wast thou, son of blue-eyed Mora; but not harmless was thy sword. It hangs in thy cave. The ghosts of Lochlin shriek around its steel. Hear thy praise, Calmar! It dwells on the voice of the mighty. Thy name shakes on the echoes of Morven. Then raise thy fair

555

locks, son of Mora. Spread them on the arch of the rainbow; and smile through the tears of the storm."

"Nil

TO EDWARD NOEL LONG, ESQ.
ego
contulerim jocundo sanus amico."-
HORACE.
DEAR Long, in this sequester'd scene,
While all around in slumber lie,
The joyous days which ours have been
Come rolling fresh on Fancy's eye;
Thus if amidst the gathering storm,
While clouds the darken'd noon deform,
Yon heaven assumes a varied glow,
I hail the sky's celestial bow,
Which spreads the sign of future peace,
And bids the war of tempests cease.
Ah! though the present brings but pain,
I think those days may come again:
Or if, in melancholy mood,
Some lurking envious fear intrude,
To check my bosom's fondest thought,
And interrupt the golden dream,

I crush the fiend with malice fraught,
And still indulge my wonted theme.
Although we ne'er again can trace,

In Granta's vale the pedant's lore;
Nor through the groves of Ida chase

Our raptured visions as before, Though Youth has flown on rosy pinion, And Manhood claims his stern dominion, Age will not every hope destroy, But yield some hours of sober joy.

Yes, I will hope that Time's broad wing Will shed around some dews of spring: But if his scythe must sweep the flowers Which bloom among the fairy bowers, Where smiling youth delights to dwell, And hearts with early rapture swell; If frowning age, with cold control, Confines the current of the soul, Congeals the tear of Pity's eye, Or checks the sympathetic sigh, Or hears unmoved misfortune's groan, And bids me feel for self alone; Oh, may my bosom never learn

To soothe its wonted heedless flow,
Still, still despise the censor stern,

But ne'er forget another's woe.
Yes, as you knew me in the days
O'er which Remembrance yet delays,
Still may I rove, untutor'd, wild,
And even in age at heart a child.
Though now on airy visions borne,
To you my soul is still the same.
Oft has it been my fate to mourn,

And all my former joys are tame.
But hence! ye hours of sable hue!
Your frowns are gone, my sorrows o'er:
By every bliss my childhood knew,
I'll think upon your shade no more.
Thus, when the whirlwind's rage is past,
And caves their sullen roar enclose,
We heed no more the wintry blast,
When lull'd by zephyr to repose.
Full often has my infant Muse

Attuned to love her languid lyre: But now, without a theme to choose, The strains in stolen sighs expire.

My youthful nymphs, alas! are flown;
E- is a wife, and C- - a mother,
And Carolina sighs alone,

And Mary's given to another;
And Cora's eye, which roll'd on me,
Can now no more my love recall:
In truth, dear Long, 'twas time to flee;
For Cora's eye will shine on all.
And though the sun, with genial rays,
His beams alike to all displays,
And every lady's eye's a sun,
These last should be confined to one.
The soul's meridian don't become her,
Whose sun displays a general summer!
Thus faint is every former flame,
And passion's self is now a name.
As, when the ebbing flames are low,
The aid which once improved their light,
And bade them burn with fiercer glow,
Now quenches all their sparks in night;
Thus has it been with passion's fires,

As many a boy and girl remembers, While all the force of love expires,

Extinguish'd with the dying embers. But now, dear Long, 'tis midnight's noon, And clouds obscure the watery moon, Whose beauties I shall not rehearse, Described in every stripling's verse; For why should I the path go o'er, Which every bard has trod before? Yet ere yon silver lamp of night

Has thrice perform'd her stated round, Has thrice retraced her path of light,

And chased away the gloom profound, I trust that we, my gentle friend, Shall see her rolling orbit wend Above the dear-loved peaceful seat, Which once contain'd our youth's retreat; And then with those our childhood knew We'll mingle in the festive crew; While many a tale of former day Shall wing the laughing hours away; And all the flow of soul shall pour The sacred intellectual shower, Nor cease till Luna's waning horn Scarce glimmers through the mist of morn.

TO A LADY.

OH! had my fate been join'd with thine,
As once this pledge appear'd a token,
These follies had not then been mine,
For then my peace had not been broken.
To thee these early faults I owe,

To thee, the wise and old reproving:
They know my sins, but do not know

'Twas thine to break the bonds of loving. For once my soul, like thine, was pure, And all its rising fires could smother; But now thy vows no more endure,

Bestow'd by thee upon another. Perhaps his peace I could destroy, And spoil the blisses that await him; Yet let my rival smile in joy,

For thy dear sake I cannot hate him. Ah! since thy angel form is gone,

My heart no more can rest with any; But what it sought with thee alone, Attempts, alas! to find in many.

Then fare thee well, deceitful maid!
'Twere vain and fruitless to regret thee;
Nor Hope nor Memory yield their aid,

But Pride may teach me to forget thee.
Yet all this giddy waste of years,

This tiresome round of palling pleasures; These varied loves, these matrons' fears,

These thoughtless strains to passion's mea

sures

If thou wert mine, had all been hush'd;—
This cheek now pale from early riot,
With passion's hectic ne'er had flush'd,
But bloom'd in calm domestic quiet.
Yes, once the rural scene was sweet,
For Nature seem'd to smile before thee.
And once my breast abhorr'd deceit,-
For then it beat but to adore thee.

But now I seek for other joys:

To think would drive my soul to madness; In thoughtless throngs and empty noise I conquer half my bosom's sadness. Yet, even in these a thought will steal In spite of every vain endeavourAnd fiends might pity what I feel

To know that thou art lost for ever.

I WOULD I WERE A CARELESS CHILD. I WOULD I were a careless child,

Still dwelling in my Highland cave, Or roaming through the dusky wild,

Or bounding o'er the dark blue wave. The cumbrous pomp of Saxon pride

Accords not with the free-born soul, Which loves the mountain's craggy side,

And seeks the rocks where billows roll. Fortune! take back these cultured lands, Take back this name of splendid sound! I hate the touch of servile hands,

I hate the slaves that cringe around. Place me among the rocks I love,

Which sound to Ocean's wildest roar :

I ask but this-again to rove

Through scenes my youth hath known before. Few are my years, and yet I feel

The world was ne'er design'd for me:
Ah! why do darkening shades conceal
The hour when man must cease to be?
Once I beheld a splendid dream,
A visionary scene of bliss!
Truth!-wherefore did thy hated beam
Awake me to a world like this?

I loved-but those I loved are gone:
Had friends-my early friends are fled:
How cheerless feels the heart alone,
When all its former hopes are dead!
Though gay companions o'er the bowl
Dispel awhile the sense of ill;
Though pleasure stirs the maddening soul,
The heart-the heart-is lonely still.

How dull! to hear the voice of those

Whom rank or chance, whom wealth or power, Have made, though neither friends nor foes, Associates of the festive hour.

Give me again a faithful few,

In years and feelings still the same, And I will fly the midnight crew, Where boisterous joy is but a name.

And woman, lovely woman! thou,
My hope, my comforter, my all!
How cold must be my bosom now,
When e'en thy smiles begin to pall!
Without a sigh would I resign

This busy scene of splendid woe,
To make that calm contentment mine,
Which virtue knows, or seems to know.
Fain would I fly the haunts of men-

I seek to shun, not hate mankind: My breast requires the sullen glen,

Whose gloom may suit a darken'd mind. Oh! that to me the wings were given Which bear the turtle to her nest! Then would I cleave the vault of heaven, To flee away, and be at rest.

Yet it could not be love, for I knew not the name, What passion can dwell in the heart of a child? But still I perceive an emotion the same

As I felt, when a boy, on the crag-cover'd wild: One image alone on my bosom impress'd,

I loved my bleak regions, nor panted for new; And few were my wants, for my wishes were bless'd;

And pure were my thoughts, for my soul was with you.

I arose with the dawn; with my dog as my guide, From mountain to mountain I bounded along; I breasted the billows of Dee's rushing tide,

And heard at a distance the Highlander's song: At eve, on my heath-cover'd couch of repose, No dreams, save of Mary, were spread to my view;

And warm to the skies my devotions arose,

For the first of my prayers was a blessing on

you.

I left my bleak home, and my visions were gone; The mountains are vanish'd, my youth is no

more;

As the last of my race, I must wither alone, And delight but in days I have witness'd before: Ah! splendour has raised but embitter'd my lot; More dear were the scenes which my infancy knew:

Though my hopes may have fail'd, yet they are not forgot;

Though cold is my heart, still it lingers with

you.

When I see some dark hill point its crest to the sky,

I think of the rocks that o'ershadow Colbleen:†

* Morven, a lofty mountain in Aberdeenshire. ↑ Colbleen, a mountain near the ruins of Dee Castle.

For the present we part-I will hope not for ever; For time and regret will restore you at last : To forget our dissension we both should endea

vour,

I ask no atonement, but days like the past.

TO THE EARL OF CLARE.
"Tu semper amoris

Sis memor, et cari comitis ne abscedat imago."
VAL. FLAC.

FRIEND of my youth! when young we roved,
Like striplings, mutually beloved,

With friendship's purest glow,

The bliss which winged those rosy hours
Was such as pleasure seldom showers
On mortals here below.

The recollection seems alone
Dearer than all the joys I've known,
When distant far from you:
Though pain, 'tis still a pleasing pain,
To trace those days and hours again,
And sigh again, adieu!

My pensive memory lingers o'er
Those scenes to be enjoy'd no more,
Those scenes regretted ever:
The measure of our youth is full,
Life's evening dream is dark and dull,
And we may meet-ah! never!
As when one parent spring supplies
Two streams which from one fountain rise,
Together join'd in vain :

How soon, diverging from their source,
Each, murmuring, seeks another course,
Till mingled in the main !

Our vital streams of weal or woe,
Though near, alas! distinctly flow,
Nor mingle as before:

Now swift or slow, now black or clear,
Till death's unfathom'd gulf appear,
And both shall quit the shore.

Our souls, my friend! which once supplied
One wish, nor breathed a thought beside,
Now flow in different channels:
Disdaining humbler rural sports,
'Tis yours to mix in polish'd courts,
And shine in fashion's annals:

"Tis mine to waste on love my time,
Or vent my reveries in rhyme,

Without the aid of reason:
For sense and reason (critics know it)

Have quitted every amorous poet,
Nor left a thought to seize on.
Poor Little! sweet, melodious bard!*
Of late esteem'd it monstrous hard,
That he, who sang before all—
He who the lore of love expanded-
By dire reviewers should be branded
As void of wit and moral.

And yet, while Beauty's praise is thine,
Harmonious favourite of the Nine !
Repine not at thy lot.

Thy soothing lays may still be read,
When Persecution's arm is dead,

And critics are forgot.

Still I must yield those worthies merit,
Who chasten, with unsparing spirit,

Bad rhymes, and those who write them;
And though myself may be the next
By criticism to be vext,

I really will not fight them.*
Perhaps they would do quite as well
To break the rudely sounding shell
Of such a young beginner:
He who offends at pert nineteen,
Ere thirty may become, I ween,
A very harden'd sinner.
Now, Clare, I must return to you;
And, sure, apologies are due:

Accept, then, my concession.
In truth, dear Clare, in fancy's flight
I soar along from left to right:
My muse admires digression.

I think I said 'twould be your fate
To add one star to royal state;-.
May regal smiles attend you!
And should a noble monarch reign,
You will not seek his smiles in vain,
If worth can recommend you.
Yet since in danger courts abound,
Where specious rivals glitter round,

From snares may saints preserve you; And grant your love or friendship ne'er From any claim a kindred care,

But those who best deserve you! Not for a moment may you stray From truth's secure, unerring way!

May no delights decoy!

O'er roses may your footsteps move,
Your smiles be ever smiles of love,

Your tears be tears of joy!

Oh if you wish that happiness
Your coming days and years may bless,
And virtues crown your brow;
Be still as you were wont to be,
Spotless as you've been known to me,-
Be still as you are now.

And though some trifling share of praise,
To cheer my last declining days,

To me were doubly dear:
Whilst blessing your beloved name,
I'd waive at once a poet's fame,
To prove a prophet here.

LINES WRITTEN BENEATH AN ELM IN
THE CHURCHYARD OF HARROW.
SPOT of my youth whose hoary branches sigh,
Swept by the breeze that fans thy cloudless sky;
Where now alone I muse, who oft have trod,
With those I loved, thy soft and verdant sod:
With those who, scatter'd far, perchance deplore,
Like me, the happy scenes they knew before:
Oh! as I trace again thy winding hill,
Mine eyes admire, my heart adores thee still,
Thou drooping Elm! beneath whose boughs I

lay.

And frequent mused the twilight hours away: Where, as they once were wont, my limbs recline, But ah! without the thoughts which then were

mine :