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The mouldering marble lasts its day,

THE DEATH OF CALMAR AND ORLA. Yet falls at length an useless fane; To ruin's ruthless fangs a prey,

AN IMITATION OF MACPHERSON'S OSSIAN.* The wrecks of pillar'd pride remain.

DEAR are the days of youth! Age dwells on What though the sculpture be destroy'd,

their remembrance through the mist of time. In From dark, oblivion meant to guard ?

the twilight, he recalls the sunny hours of morn. A bright renown shall be enjoy'd

He lifts his spear with trembling hand. “Not thus By those whose virtues claim reward.

feebly did I raise the steel before my fathers !''

Past is the race of heroes! but their fame rises on Then do not say the common lot

the harp; their souls ride on the wings of the wind; Of all lies deep in Lethe's wave;

they hear the sound through the sighs of the storm, Some few who ne'er will be forgot

and rejoice in their hall of clouds! Such is Calmar. Shall burst the bondage of the grave.

The gray stone marks his narrow house. He looks 1806.

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 Fin

gal. His steps in the field were marked in blood ! TO THE REV. J. T. BECHER.*

Lochlin's sons had fled before his angry spear; but

mild was the eye of Calmar: soft was the flow of Dear Becher, you tell me to mix with mankind :

his yellow locks: they streamed like the meteor of I cannot deny such a precept is wise;

the night. No maid was the sigh of his soul: his But retirement accords with the tone of my mind;

thoughts were given to friendship; to dark-haired I will not descend to a world I despise.

Orla, destroyer of heroes! Equal were their swords

in battle; but fierce was the pride of Orla: gentle Did the senate or camp my exertions require,

alone to Calmar. Together they dwelt in the cave Ambition might prompt me, at once, to go forth; lof Oithona. When infancy's years of probation expire, Perchance I may strive to distinguish my birth.

waves. Erin's sons fell beneath his might. Fingal

roused his chiefs to combat. Their ships cover the The fire in the cavern of Etna conceal'd,

ocean! Their hosts throng on the green hills. They Still mantles unseen in its secret recess;

come to the aid of Erin. At length in a volume terrific reveal'd,

| Night rose in clouds. Darkness veils the armies. No torrent can quench it, no bounds can repress. But the blazing oaks gleam through the valley.

The sons of Lochlin slept; their dreams were of Oh! thus, the desire in my bosom for fame

blood. They lift the spear in thought, and Fingal Bids me live but to hope for prosperity's praise.

flies. Not so the host of Morven. To watch was Could I soar with the phenix on pinions of flame,

the post of Orla. Calmar stood by his side. Their With him I would wish to expire in the blaze.

spears were in their hands. Fingal called his chiefs ;

they stood around. The king was in the midst. For the life of a Fox, of a Chatham the death,

Gray were his locks, but strong was the arm of the What censure,what danger, what wo would I brave!i

king. Age withered not his powers. “Sons of Their lives did not end when they yielded their Morten." said the hero, "v to-morrow we meet the breath,

foe: but where is Cuthullin, the shield of Erin ? He Their glory illumines the gloom of their grave. es the gloom of their grave. rests in the halls of Tura; he knows not of our

coming. Who will speed through Lochlin to the Yet why should I mingle in Fashion's full herd ?

hero, and call the chief to arms? The path is by Why crouch to her leaders, or cringe to her rules? the swords of foes, but many are my heroes. They Why bend to the proud, or applaud the absurd ?

are thunderbolts of war. Speak, ye chiefs! Who Why search for delight in the friendship of fools ?) will arise »

"Son of Trenmor! mine be the deed," said darkI have tasted the sweets and the bitters of love; Thaired Orla. " and mine alone. What is death to In friendship I early was taught to believe;

me? I love the sleep of the mighty, but little is the My passion the matrons of prudence reprove;

danger. The sons of Lochlin dream. I will seek I have found that a friend may profess, yet de

car-borne Cuthullin. If I fall, raise the song of ceive.

bards; and lay me by the stream of Lubar."-"And

shalt thou fall alone ?" said fair-haired Calmar. To me what is wealth ? it may pass in an hour,

“Wilt thou leave thy friend afar? Chief of Oithona! If tyrants prevail, or if Fortune should frown.

not feeble is my arm in fight. Could I see thee die, To me what is title ?-the phantom of power ;

and not lift the spear? No, Orla! ours has been To me what is fashion ?--I seek but renown.

the chase of the roebuck, and the feast of shells : Deceit is a stranger as yet to my soul,

ours be the path of danger: ours has been the cave

of Oithona; ours be the narrow dwelling on the 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?

• First published in Hours of Idleness.

| It may be necessary to observe, that the story, though considerably varied

in the catastrophe, is taken from "Nisus and Euryalus," of which episode • Only found in the private volume.

translation is already given in the present volume.

banks of Lubar.” “Calmar," said the chief of ful is the clang of death! many are the widows of Oithona ; "why should thy yellow locks be dark- Lochlin. Morven prevails in his strength. ened in the dust of Erin? Let me fall alone. My Morn glimmers on the hills; no living foe is seen; father dwells in his hall of air: he will rejoice in his but the sleepers are many; grim they lie on Erin. boy; but the blue-eyed Mora spreads the feast for The breeze of ocean lifts their locks; yet they do not her son in Morven. She listens to the steps of the awake. The hawks scream above their prey. hunter on the heath, and thinks it is the tread ofWhose yellow locks wave o'er the breast of a Calmar. Let him not say, Calmar has fallen by chief? Bright as the gold of the stranger, they the steel of Lochlin: he died with gloomy Orla, the mingle with the dark hair of his friend. "'Tis Calchief of the dark brow.' Why should tears dim the mar: he lies on the bosom of Orla. Theirs is one azure eye of Mora? Why should her voice curse stream of blood. Fierce is the look of the gloomy Orla, the destroyer of Calmar? Live, Calmar! Orla. He breathes not; but his eye is still a flame. Live to raise my stone of moss; live to revenge me It glares in death unclosed. His hand is grasped in in the blood of Lochlin. Join the song of bards Calmar's; but Calmar lives! he lives, though low. above my grave. Sweet will be the song of death to " Rise,” said the king, “rise, son of Mora : 'tis Orla from the voice of Calmar. My ghost shall mine to heal the wounds of heroes. Calmar may yet smile on the notes of praise.” “Orla," said the son bound on the hills of Morven.” of Mora, “could I raise the song of deathto my “Never more shall Calmar chase the deer of Morfriend? Could I give his fame to the winds ? No, ven with Orla,” said the hero. “What were the my heart would speak in sighs. Faint and broken chase to me alone? Who would share the spoils of are the sounds of sorrow. Orla! our souls shall battle with Calmar? Orla is at rest! Rough was hear the song together. One cloud shall be ours on thy soul, Orla! yet soft to me as the dew of morn. high. The bards will mingle the names of Orla and It glared on others in lightning ; to me a silver Calmar.”

beam of night. Bear my sword to blue-eyed Mora ; They quit the circle of the chiefs. Their steps let it hang in my empty hall. It is not pure from are to the host of Lochlin. The dying blaze of oak blood: but it could not save Orla. Lay me with my dim twinkles through the night. The northern star friend. Raise the song when I am dark !” points the path to Tura. Swaran, the king, rests They are laid by the stream of Lubar. Four gray on his lonely hill. Here the troops are mixed: they stones mark the dwelling of Orla and Calmar. frown in sleep; their shields beneath their heads. When Swaran was bound, our sails rose on the Their swords gleam at distance in heaps. The fires blue waves. The winds gave our barks to Morven. are faint; their embers fail in smoke. All is hushed; The bards raised the song. but the gale sighs on the rocks above. Lightly wheel “What form rises on the roar of clouds ? Whose the heroes through the slumbering band. Half the dark ghost gleams on the red streams of tempests? journey is past, when Mathon, resting on his shield, His voice rolls on the thunder. 'Tis Orla, the brown meets the eye of Orla. It rolls in flame, and glist-chief of Oithona. He was unmatched in war. ens through the shade. His spear is raised on Peace to thy soul, Orla! thy fame will not perish. high. “Why dost thou bend thy brow, chief of Nor thine, Calmar ! Lovely wast thou, son of blueOithona ?” said fair-haired Calmar. “ We are in the eyed Mora ; but not harmless was thy sword. It midst of foes. Is this a time for delay?" "It is a hangs in thy cave. The ghosts of Lochlin shriek time for vengeance,” said Orla of the gloomy brow. around its steel. Hear thy praise, Calmar! It “Mathon of Lochlin sleeps: seest thou his spear? |dwells on the voice of the mighty. Thy name Its point is dim with the gore of my father. The shakes on the echoes of Morven. Then raise thy blood of Mathon shall reek on mine ; but shall I fair locks, son of Mora. Spread them on the arch slay him sleeping, son of Mora? No! he shall feel his of the rainbow; and smile through the tears of the wound: my fame shall not soar on the blood of storm."* 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! Cal

TO E. N. L. ESQ. mar! fly!” said dark-haired Orla. “Mathon is

« Nil ego contulerim jucundo sanus amico."-Hor. E. mine. I shall die in joy. But Lochlin crowds around. Fly through the shade of night.” Orla

DEAR L- , in this sequester'd scene, turns. The helm of Mathon is cleft; his shield falls

While all around in slumber lie, from his arm : he shudders in his blood. He rolls The joyous days which ours have been by the side of the blazing oak. Strumon sees him Come rolling fresh on Fancy's eye; fall: his wrath rises : his weapon glitters on the Thus if amid the gathering storm, head of Orla: but a spear pierced his eye. His While clouds the darken'd noon deform, brain gushes through the wound, and foams on the

Yon heaven assumes a varied glow, spear of Calmar. As roll the waves of the ocean on I hail the sky's celestial bow, two mighty barks of the north, so pour the men of Which spreads the sign of future peace, Lochlin on the chiefs. As, breaking the surge in And bids the war of tempest cease. foam, proudly steer the barks of the north, so rise the chiefs of Morven on the scattered crests of Loch- • I fear Laing's late edition has completely overthrown every hope there lin. The din of arms came to the ear of Fingal He Macpherson's Ossian might prove the translation of a series of poems com

plete in themselves; but, while the imposture is discovered, the merit of the strikes his shield; his sons throng around; the peo- work remains undisputed, though not without faults-particularly, in soine ple pour along the heath. Ryno bounds in joy. parts, tnrgid and bombastic diction. The present humble imitation will be Ossian stalks in his arms. Oscar shakes his spear.

pardoned by the admirers of the original as an attempt, however inferior,

which evinces an attachment te their favorite author. The eagle wing of Fillan floats on the wind. Dread-li | First published in Hours of Idleness.

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Ah! though the present brings but pain,

And passion's self is now a name.
I think those days may come again;

As, when the ebbing flames are low,
Or if, in melancholy mood,

The aid which once improved their light,
Some lurking envious fear intrude,

And bade them burn with fiercer glow, To check my bosom's fondest thought,

Now quenches all their sparks in night;
And interrupt the golden dream,

Thus has it been with passion's fires,
I crush the fiend with malice fraught,

As many a boy and girl remembers,
And still indulge my wonted theme.

With all the force of love expires,
Although we ne'er again can trace,

Extinguish'd with the dying embers.
In Granta's vale, the pedant's lore,

But now, dear L- , 'tis midnight's noon,
Nor through the grores of Ida chase

And clouds obscure the watery moon,
Our raptured visions as before,

Whose beauties I shall not rehearse,
Though Youth has flown on rosy pinion,

Described in every stripling's verse;
And Manhood claims his stern dominion ;

For why should I the path go o'er,
Age will not every hope destroy,

Which every bard has trod before ?
But yield some hours of sober joy.

Yet ere yon silver lamp of night

Has thrice perform’d her stated round,
Yes, I will hope that Time's broad wing

Has thrice retraced her path of light,
Will shed around some dews of Spring:

And chased away the gloom profound,
But if his scythe must sweep the flowers

I trust that we, my gentle friend,
Which bloom among the fairy bowers,

Shall see her rolling orbit wend
Where smiling Youth delights to dwell,

Above the dear-loved peaceful seat
And hearts with early rapture swell;

Which once contain'd our youth's retreat;
If frowning Age, with cold control,

And then with those our childhood knew,
Confines the current of the soul,

We'll mingle with the festive crew;
Congeals the tear of Pity's eye,

While many a tale of former day
Or checks the sympathetic sigh,

Shall wing the laughing hours away;
Or hears unmoved Misfortune's groan,

And all the flow of souls shall pour
And bids me feel for self alone;

The sacred intellectual shower,
Oh! may my bosom never learn

Nor cease till Luna's waning horn
To soothe its wonted heedless flow;

Scarce glimmers through the mist of morn
Still, still despise the censor stern,

But ne'er forget another's wo.
Yes, as you knew me in the days
O’er which remembrance yet delays,
Still may I rove, untutor'd, wild,
Aud even in age at heart a child.

TO — *
Though now on airy visions borne,

OH! had my fate been join'd with thine,
To you my soul is still the same:

As once this pledge appear'da token,
Oft has it been my fate to mourn,

These follies had not then been mine,
And all my former joys are tame.

For then my peace had not been broken.
But, hence ! ye hours of sable hue !
Your frowns are gone, my sorrows o'er ;

To thee these early faults I owe,
By every bliss my childhood knew,

To thee, the wise and old reproving :
I'll think upon your shade no more.

They know my sins, but do not know
Thus, when the whirlwind's rage is past,

'Twas thine to break the bonds of loving.
And caves their sullen roar enclose,
We heed no more the wintry blast,

For once my soul, like thine, was pure, When lull’d by zephyr to repose.

And all its rising fires could smother; full often has my infant Muse

But now thy vows no more endure,
Attuned to love her languid lyre;

Bestow'd by thee upon another.
But now, without a theme to choose,
The strains in stolen sighs expire.

Perhaps his peace I could destroy,
My youthful nymphs, alas ! are flown;

And spoil the blisses that await him;
E is a wife, and a mother;

Yet let my rival smile in joy,
And Carolina sighs alone,

For thy dear sake I cannot hate him.
And Mary's given to another;
And Cora's eye, which rolled on me,

Ah! since thy angel form is gone,
Can now no more my love recall;

My heart no more can rest with any ;
In truth, dear L- , 'twas time to flee;

But what is sought in thee alone,
For Cora's eye will shine on all.

Attempts, alas! to find in many.
And though the sun, with genial rays,
His beams alike to all displays,

Then fare thee well, deceitful maid,
And every lady's eye's a sun,

'Twere vain and fruitless to regret thee; These last should be confined to one.

Nor Hope, nor Memory, yield their aid,
The soul's meridian don't become her

But Pride may teach me to forget thee.
Whose sun displays a general summer!
Thus faint is every former flame,

• Miss Chaworth. First published in the first edition of Hours of Idlers

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