No mail-clad Serfs, obedient to their Lord, I Of changing sentinels the distant hum, In grim array, the crimson cross demand; Else might inspiring Fancy's magic eye But not from thee, dark pile! departs the His feudal realm in other regions lay; Yes, in thy gloomy cells and shades profound, The Monk abjured a world he ne'er could view ; Where now the grass exhales a murky dew, Soon as the gloaming spreads her waning Or matin-orisons to Mary paid. Years roll on years- to ages, ages yield- One holy HENRY rear'd the Gothic walls, And bids devotion's hallow'd echoes cease. Vain is each threat, or supplicating prayer, Hark! how the hall, resounding to the strain, The mirth of feasts, the clang of burn- The braying trumpet, and the hoarser drum, And dart destruction in sulphureous Ah! vain defence! the hostile traitor's siege, brave; wave. Not unavenged, the raging Baron yields. The blood of traitors smears the purple plain; Unconquer'd still his faulchion there he wields, And days of glory yet for him remain. Still, in that hour the warrior wish'd to strew Hush'd is the harp, unstrung the warlike | Ah! happy days! too happy to endure! lyre, The minstrel's palsied hand reclines in death; No more he strikes the quivering chords At length, the sated murderers, gorged Here Desolation holds her dreary court; Soon a new morn's restoring beams dispel The clouds of anarchy from Britain's skies; The fierce usurper seeks his native hell, And Nature triumphs as the tyrant dies. With storms she welcomes his expiring return; Such simple sports our plain forefathers knew; No splendid vices glitter'd to allure, Their joys were many, as their cares were few. Culture again adorns the gladdening vale, THE DEATH OF CALMAR AND ORLA. And matrons, once lamenting, cease to mourn. 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 recals the sunny hours of morn. 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 gray 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 stream'd 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. Gray 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 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?" She listens to the steps of the hunter on the heath, and thinks it is the tread of Calmar. Let him not say, “Calmar is fallen by the steel of Lochlin; he died with gloomy Orla, 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 revenge me in the blood of Lochlin! Jo the song of bards above my grave. Sweet will be the song of death to Orla, fr 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 fam 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 dis tance, in heaps. The fires are faint; their embers fail in smoke. All is hushed; but the gale sighs on the rocks above. Lightly wheel the heroes through the slumbering band. Half the journey is past, whe Mathon, resting on his shield, meets the eye of Orla. It rolls in flame, and glistens through the shade: his spear is raised high. "Why dost thou bend thy brow Chief of Oithona?" said fair-haired Calmar "We are in the midst of foes. Is this time for delay?"—"It is a time for ver geance," said Orla, of the gloomy brow Mathon of Lochlin sleeps: seest thon his "Son of Trenmor! mine be the deed," spear? Its point is dim with the gore of my said dark-haired Orla, "and mine alone. father. The blood of Mathon shall reek What is death to me? I love the sleep of mine; but shall I slay him sleeping. the mighty, but little is the danger. The of Mora? No! he shall feel his wound: sons of Lochlin dream. I will seek car- my fame shall not soar on the blood f borne Cuthullin. If I fall, raise the song slumber. Rise, Mathon! rise! the son of bards, and lay me by the stream of Lu- Connal calls; thy life is his: rise to bar.”—“And shalt thou fall alone?" said bat." Mathon starts from sleep, but did he fair-haired Calmar. "Wilt thou leave thy rise alone? No: the gathering chiefs bound friend afar? Chief of Oithona! not feeble on the plain. "Fly, Calmar fly!" said darkis my arm in fight. Could I see thee die, haired Orla; "Mathon is mine; I shall die and not lift the spear? No, Orla! ours has in joy; but Lochlin crowds around; ! been the chase of the roebuck, and the feast through the shade of night." Orla turns of shells; ours be the path of danger: ours the helm of Mathon is cleft; his shield has been the cave of Oithona; ours be the falls from his arm: he shudders in his narrow dwelling on the banks of Lubar." blood. He rolls by the side of the blazing "Calmar!" said the chief of Oithona, "why oak. Strumon sees him fall. His wrath 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. 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 Ocean on two mighty barks of the north so ponr 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, thongh low. "Rise," said the king, "rise, Son of Mora; 'tis mine to heal the wounds of heroes. Calmar 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 would 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 Örla. Lay me with my friend: raise the song when I am dark." They are laid by the stream of Lubar. Four gray 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 rear 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 blueeyed 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 locks, son of Mora. Spread them on the arch of the rainbow, and smile through the tears of the storm." TO E. N. L. Esq. Nil ego contulerim jucundo sanus amico. DEAR L—, in this sequester'd scene, I 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 To soothe its wonted heedless flow, But ne'er forget another's woe. 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 huc, Your frowns are gone, my sorrow 's 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; And Mary's given to another; These last should be confined to one. As many a boy and girl remembers, Extinguish'd with the dying embers. But now dear L-, 'tis midnight's noon, 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 with 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. ΤΟ 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, Ah! since thy angel-form is gone, Then fare thee well, deceitful maid, Yet all this giddy waste of years, This tiresome round of palling pleasures, These varied loves, these matron's fears, These thoughtless strains to Passion's measures, 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, 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, STANZAS. 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 freeborn soul. Which loves the mountain's craggy side, And seeks the rocks where billows rell Fortune! take back these cultured lands. Take back this name of splendid sound' |