Here Desolation holds her dreary court;

What satellites declare her dismal reign!
Shrieking their dirge, ill omen'd birds resort
To flit their vigils in the hoary fane.

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 groans, Whirlwinds responsive greet his labouring breath;

Earth shudders as her cave receives his bones,
Loathing the offering of so dark a death.

The legal Ruler † now resumes the helm,
He guides thro' gentle seas the prow of state :

* This is an historical fact. A violent tempest occurred immediately subsequent to the death, or interment, of Cromwell, which occasioned many disputes between his Partisans and the Cavaliers; both interpreted the circumstance into divine interposition, but whether as approbation or condemnation, we leave to the casuists of that age to decide. I have made such use of the occurrence as suited the subject of my poem. + Charles II.

Hope cheers with wonted smiles the peaceful

realm,

And heals the bleeding wounds of wearied Hate.

The gloomy tenants, Newstead, of thy cells,
Howling resign their violated nest;

Again the master on his tenure dwells,
Enjoy'd, from absence, with enraptured zest.

Vassals within thy hospitable pale,

Loudly carousing, bless their Lord's return;
Culture again adorns the gladdening vale,
And matrons, once lamenting, cease to mourn.

A thousand songs on tuneful echo float,
Unwonted foliage mantles o'er the trees;

And, hark! the horns proclaim a mellow note,
The hunter's cry hangs lengthening on the

breeze.

Beneath their coursers' hoofs the valleys shake: What fears! what anxious hopes! attend the chase!

The dying stag seeks refuge in the lake,

Exulting shouts announce the finish'd race.

Ah! happy days! too happy to endure !

Such simple sports our plain forefathers knew ; No splendid vices glitter'd to allure,

Their joys were many, as their cares were few. From these descending, sons to sires succeed, Time steals along, and Death uprears his dart ; Another chief impels the foaming steed,

Another crowd pursue the panting hart.

Newstead! what saddening change of scene is thine!

Thy yawning arch betokens slow decay; The last and youngest of a noble line

Now holds thy mouldering turrets in his sway.

Deserted now, he scans thy gray-worn towers-
Thy vaults, where dead of feudal ages sleep—
Thy cloisters, pervious to the wintry showers-
These, these he views, and views them but to
weep.

Yet are his tears no emblem of regret,
Cherish'd affection only bids them flow;
Pride, Hope, and Love forbid him to forget,

But warm his bosom with impassion'd glow.

Yet, he prefers thee to the gilded domes,

Or gew-gaw grottos of the vainly great; Yet lingers 'mid thy damp and mossy tombs, Nor breathes a murmer 'gainst the will of fate.

Haply thy sun emerging yet may shine,

Thee to eradiate with meridian ray;

Hours splendid as the past may still be thine,
And bless thy future as thy former day.

THE DEATH OF CALMAR AND ORLA.

AN IMITATION OF

MACPHERSON'S OSSIAN. *

He

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. 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

It may be necessary to observe, that the story, though considerably varied in the Catastrophe, is taken from "Nisus and Euryalus," of which episode a translation is already given in the present volume.

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