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Matured by age, the garb of prudence wears. There Science, from her favour'd seat, surveys When now the boy is ripen'd into man,
The vale where rural Nature claims her praise ; His careful sire chalks forth some wary plan; To her awhile resigns her youthful train, Instructs his son from candour's path to shrink, Who move in joy, and dance along the plain : Smoothly to speak, and cautiously to think;
In scatter'd groups each favour'd haunt pursue ; Still to assent, and never to deny
Repeat old pastimes, and discover new , A patron's praise can well reward the lie :
Flush d with his rays, beneath the noontide sun, And who, when Fortune's warning voice is heard, In rival bands between the wickets run, Would lose his opening prospects for a word ?
Drive o'er the sward the ball with active force, Although against that word his heart rebel,
Or chase with nimble feet its rapid course. And truth indignant all his bosom swell.
But these with slower steps direct their way,
Where Brent's cool waves in limpid currents stray ; Away with themes like this! not mine the task
While yonder few search out some green retreat, From flattering friends to tear the hateful mask;
And arbours shade them from the summer heat : Let keener bards delight in satire's sting;
Others, again, a pert and lively crew, My fancy soars not on Detraction's wing :
Some rough and thoughtless stranger placed in view, Once, and but once, she aim'da deadly blow,
With frolic quaint their antic jests expose, To hurl defiance on a secret foe,
And tease the grumbling rustic as he goes; But when that foe, from feeling or from shame,
Nor rest with this, but many a passing fray The cause unknown, yet still to me the same,
Tradition treasures for a future day: Warn'd by some friendly hint, perchance, retired,
• Twas here the gather'd swains for vengeance fought, With this submission all her rage expired.
And here we earn'd the conquest dearly bought; From dreaded pangs that feeble foe to save,
Here have we fled before superior might, She hush'd her young resentment, and forgave; And here renew'd the wild tuinultuous fight.' Or, if my muse a pedant's portrait drew,
While thus our souls with early passions swell, Pomposus' virtues are but known to few :
In lingering tones resounds the distant bell; I never fear'd the young usurper's nod,
Th' allotted hour of daily sport is o'er, And he who wields must sometimes feel the rod.
And Learning beckons from her temple's door. If since on Granta's failings, known to all
No splendid tablets grace her simple hall, Who share the converse of a college hall,
But ruder records fill the dusky wall; She sometimes trified in a lighter strain,
There, deeply carved, behold I each tyro's name 'Tis past, and thus she will not sin again ;
Secures its owner's academic fame; Soon must her early song for ever cease.
Here mingling view the names of sire and sonAnd all may rail when I shall rest in peace.
The one long graved, the other just begun :
These shall survive alike when son and sire Here first remember'd be the joyous band,
Beneath one common stroke of fate expire ; Who hail'd me chief, obedient to command ;
Perhaps their last memorial these alone, Who join'd with me in every boyish sport
Denied in death a monumental stone, Their first adviser, and their last resort;
Whilst to the gale in inournful cadence wave, Nor shrunk beneath the upstart pedant's frown,
The sighing weeds that bide their nameless grave. Or all the sable glories of his gown;
And here my name, and many an early friend's, Who, thus transplanted from his father's school
Along the wall in lengthen d line extends. Unfit to govern, ignorant of rule
Though still our deeds amuse the youthful race, Succeeded him, whom all unite to praise,
Who tread our steps, and fill our former place, The dear preceptor of my early days:
Who young obey'd their lords in silent awe, Probus, the pride of science, and the boast,
Whose nod commanded, and whose voice was law; To Ida now, alas! for ever lost.
And now, in turn, possess the reins of power, With him, for years, we search'd the classic page,
To rule the little tyrants of an hour; And fear'd the master, though we loved the sage:
Though sometimes with the tales of ancient day, Retired at last, his small yet peaceful seat
They pass the dreary winter's eve awayFrom learning's labour is the blest retreat.
. And thus our former rulers stemm'd the tide, Pomposus fills his magisterial chair;
And thus they dealt the combat side by side; Poinposus governs—but, my muse, forbear :
Just in this place the mouldering walls they scall, Contempt, in silence, be the pedant's lot ;
Nor bolts nor bars against their strength availd; His name and precepts be alike forgot :
Here Probus came, the rising fray to quell, No more his mention shall my verse degrade,
And here he falter' i forth his last farewell; To him my tribute is already paid.
And here one night abroad they dared to roamn, High, through those elms, with lioary branches
While hold Pomposus bravely stay'd at home;' crown'd,
While thus they speak, the lour must soon arrire, Fair Ida's hower adorns the landscape round:
When names of these, like ours, alone survive :
The faint remembrance of our fairy realm.
Dear honest race ! though now we meet no more, years at Harrow, the last twenty as head.master. One last long look on what we were before-
Our first kind greetings, and our last adieu
To build his own upon thy deathless fame. Drew tears from eyes unused to weep with you. Friend of my heart, and foremost of the list Through splendid circles, fashion's gaudy world, of those with whom I lived supremely blest, Where folly's glaring standard waves unfurl'd, Oft have we drain'd the font of ancient lore; . I plunged to drown in noise my fond regret,
Though drinking deeply, thirsting still the more. And all I sought or hoped was to forget.
Yet, when confinement's lingering hour was done, Vain wish! if chance some well-remember'd face, Our sports, our studies, and our souls were one : Some old companion of my early race,
Together we impellid the flying ball; Advanced to claim his friend with honest joy,
Together waited in our tutor's hall; My eyes, my heart, proclaim'd me still a boy ;
Together join'd in cricket's manly toil, The glittering scene, the fluttering groups around, Or shared the produce of the river's spoil ; Were quite forgotten when my friend was found; Or, plunging from the green declining shore, The smiles of beauty-for, alas ! I've known
Our pliant limbs the buoyant billows bore; What 'tis to bend before Love's mighty throne) In every clement, unchanged, the same, The smiles of beauty, though those smiles were dear, All, all that brothers should be, but the name. Could hardly charm me, when that friend was near; My thoughts bewilder'd in the fond surprise,
Nor yet are you forgot, my jocund boy! The woods of Ida danced before my eyes;
Davus, the harbinger of childish joy; I saw the sprightly wanderers pour along,
For ever foremost in the ranks of fun, I saw and join'd again the joyous throng ;
The laughing herald of the harmless pun; Panting, again I traced her lofty grove,
Yet with a breast of such materials madeAnd friendship's feelings triumph'd over love. Anxious to please, of pleasing half afraid;
Candid and liberal, with a heart of steel Yet why should I alone with such delight
In danger's path, though not untaught to feel. Retrace the circuit of my former flight ?
Still I remember, in the factious strife, Is there no cause beyond the common claim
The rustic's musket aim'd against my life: Endear'd to all in childhood's very name?
High pois d in air the massy weapon hung, Ah! sure some stronger impulse vibrates here,
A cry of horror burst from every tongue; Which whispers friendship will be doubly dear
Whilst I, in combat with another foe, To one who thus for kindred hearts must roam,
Fought on, unconscious of th' impending blow; And seek abroad the love denied at home.
Your arm, brave boy, arrested his careerThose hearts, dear Ida, have I found in thee
Forward you sprung, insensible to fear; A home, a world, a paradise to me.
Disarm'd and baffled by your conquering hand, Stern Death forbade my orphan youth to share
The grovelling savage roll'd upon the sand: The tender guidance of a father's care.
An act like this, can simple thanks repay? Can rank, or e'en a guardian's name, supply
Or all the labours of a grateful lay! The love which glistens in a father's eye?
Oh no! whene'er my breast forgets the deed, For this can wealth or title's sound atone,
That instant, Davus, it deserves to bleed.
Lycus ! on me thy claims are justly great: What sister's gentle kiss has prest my cheek?
Thy milder virtues could my muse relate, For me how dull the vacant moments rise,
To thee alone, unrivall'd, would belong To no fond bosom link'd by kindred ties !
The feeble efforts of my lengthend song. Oft in the progress of some fleeting dream
Well canst thou boast, to lead in senates fit, Fraternal siniles collected round me seem;
A Spartan firmness with Athenian wit : While still the visions to my heart are prest,
Though yet in embryo these perfections shine, The voice of love will murmur in my rest :
Lycus! thy father's fame will soon be thine. I hear-I wake-and in the sound rejoice;
Where learning nurtures the superior mind, I hear again,-but ah ! no brother's voice.
What may we hope from genius thus refind ! A hermit, midst of crowds, I fain would stray,
When time at length matures thy growing years, Alone, though thousand pilgrims fill the way;
How wilt thou tower above thy fellow peers! While these a thousand kindred wreaths entwine,
Prudence and sense, a spirit bold and free,
With honour's soul, united beam in thee.
Shall fair Euryalus pass by unsung?
From ancient lineage, not unworthy sprung: And none more dear than Ida's social band.
What though one sad dissension bade us part? Alonzo ! best and dearest of my friends,
That name is yet embalm'd within my heart; Thy name ennobles him who thus commends: Yet at the mention does that heart rebound, From this fond tribute thou canst gain no praise : And palpitate, responsive to the sound. The praise is his who now that tribute pays.
Envy dissolved our ties, and not our will: Oh! in the promise of thy early youth,
We once were friends, I'll think we are so still. Jf hope anticipate the words of truth,
A form unmatch'd in nature's partial mould, Some loftier bard shall sing thy glorious name, A heart untainted, we in thee behold;
Yet not the senate's thunder thou shalt wield, How many a friend deserves the grateful strain! Nor seek for glory in the tented field;
What scenes of childhood still unsung remain ! To minds of ruder texture these be given
Yet let me hush this echo of the past, Thy soul shall nearer soar its native heaven.
This parting song, the dearest and the last;
And brood in secret o'er those hours of joy,
I think with pleasure on the past alone;
Ida! still o'er thy hills in joy preside, Sacred to love, unclouded e'er by hate;
And proudly steer through time's eventful tide; The world admire thee, and thy friends adore ;
Still may thy blooming sons thy name revere, Ambition's slave alone would toil for more.
Smile in thy bower, but quit thee with a tear,Now last, but nearest, of the social band,
That tear, perhaps, the fondest which will filow See honest, open, generous Cleon stand;
O'er their last scene of happiness below. With scarce one speck to cloud the pleasing scene,
Tell me, ye hoary few, who glide along, No vice degrades that purest soul serene.
The feeble veterans of some former throng. On the same day our studious race begun,
Whose friends, like autumn leaves by tempests whirl'd, On the same day our studious race was run;
Are swept for ever from this busy world ; Thus side by side we pass d our first career,
Revolve the fleeting moments of your youth, Thus side by side we strove for many a year,
While Care as yet withheld her venom'd tooth;
Say if remembrance days like these endears
Beyond the rapture of succeeding years ?
Say, can ambition's fever'd dream bestow And crowds allow to both a partial fame:
So sweet a balm to soothe your hours of woe? To soothe a youthful rival's early pride,
Can treasures, hoarded for some thankless son, Though Cleon's candour would the palm divide,
Can royal smiles, or wreaths by slaughter won, Yet candour's self compels me now to own
Can stars or ermine, man's maturer toys,
(For glittering baubles are not left to boys), Justice awards it to my friend alone.
Recall one scene so much beloved to view Ohi friends regretted, scenes for ever dear.
As those where Youth her garland twined for you? Remembrance hails you with her warmest tear!
Ah, no! amidst the gloomy calm of age Drooping, she bends o'er pensive Fancy's urn,
You turn with faltering hand life's varied pages To trace the hours which never can return;
Peruse the record of your days on earth, Yet with the retrospection loves to dwell,
Unsullied only where it marks your birth; And soothe the sorrows of her last farewell !
Still lingering pause above each chequer'd leaf, Yet greets the triumph of my boyish mind,
And blot with tears the sable lines of grief; As infant laurels round my head are twined,
Where Passion o'er the theme her mantle threw, When Probus' praise repaid my lyric song,
Or weeping Virtue sigh'd a faint adieu ; Or placed ine higher in the studious throng;
But bless the scroll which fairer words adorn, Or when my first harangue received applause,
Traced by the rosy finger of the morn;
When Friendship bow'd before the shrine of Truth, His sage instruction the prineval cause, What gratitude to him my soul possest,
And Love, without his pinion, smiled on youth. While hope of dawning honours fill'd my breast ! For all my humble fame, to him alone
ANSWER TO A BEAUTIFUL POEM. The praise is due, who made that fame my own. Oh! could I soar above these feeble lays,
· ENTITLED “THE COMMON LOT.' These young effusions of my early days,
MONTGOMERY! true, the common lot To him my muse her noblest strain would give:
Of mortals lies in Lethe's wave; The song might perish, but the theme might live.
Yet some shall never be forgot,
Some shall exist beyond the grave.
Unknown the region of his birth,'
The hero rolls the tide of war; A fame beyond the glories of the proud,
Yet not unknown his martial worth, Or all the plaudits of the venal crowd.
Which glares a meteor from afar.
Ida! not yet exhausted is the theme,
L'Amitié est l'Amour sans arles' is a French proverb.
+ Written by James Montgomery, author of The Wanderer in Switzerland, etc. att No particular hero is here alluded to. The ex
Iploits of Bayard, Nemours, Edward the Black Prince,
This alludes to the public speeches deliver he school where the author was educated.
His joy or grief, his weal or woe,
Perchance may 'scape the page of faine; Yet nations now unborn will know
The record of his deathless name.
The patriot's and the poet's frame
Must share the common tomb of all: Their glory will not sleep the same;
That will arise, though empires fall.
The fire in the cavern of Etna conceald,
Still mantles unseen in its secret recess:
No torrent can quench it, no bounds can repress.
Bids me live but to hope for posterity's praise.
With him I would wish to expire in the blaze.
Their glory illumines the gloom of their grave.
Why crouch to her leaders, or cringe to her rules
Why search for delight in the friendship of fools!
The lustre of a beauty's eye
Assumes the ghastly stare of death; The fair, the brave, the good must die, And sink the yawning grave beneath.
Once more the speaking eye revives,
Still beaming through the lover's strain; For Petrarch's Laura still survives:
She died, but ne'er will die again.
The rolling seasons pass away,
And Time, untiring, waves his wing, Whilst honour s laurels ne'er decay,
But bloom in fresh, unfading spring.
All, all must sleep in grim repose,
Collected in the silent tomb;
Festering alike in shrouds, consume.
I have tasted the sweets and the bitters of love :
In friendship I early was taught to believe :
I have found that a friend may profess, yet deceive.
If tyrants prevail, or if Fortune should frown:
To me what is fashion I-I seek but renown.
I still am unpractised to varnish the truth :
Why waste upon folly the days of iny youth?
The mouldering marble lasts its day,
Yet falls at length a useless fane; To ruin's ruthless fangs a prey,
The wrecks of pillar'd pride remain.
What, though the sculpture be destroy'd,
THE DEATH OF CALMAR AND ORLA.
AN IMITATION OF MACPHERSON'S OSSIAN.*
DEAR are the days of youth! Age dwells on their Then do not say the common lot
remembrance through the mist of time. In the Of all lies deep in Lethe's wave,
twilight he recalls the sunny hours of morn. He lifts Some few who ne'er will be forgot
his spear with trembling hand. Not thus feebly did Shall burst the bondage of the grave.
I raise the steel before my fathers ! Past is the race of heroes. But their fame rises on the barp; their souls ride on the wings of the wind; they hear the
sound through the sighs of the storm, and rejoice in LINES
their hall of clouds! Such is Calmar. The grey stone ADDRESSED TO THE REV. J. T. BECHER, ON marks his narrow house. He looks down from eddying
HIS ADVISING THE AUTHOR TO MIX MORE tempests: he rolls his form in the whirlwind, and WITH SOCIETY.
hovers on the blast of the inountain.
In Morven dwelt the chief ; a beam of war to FinDEAR Becher, you tell me to mix with mankind;
gal. His steps in the field were marked in blood. I cannot deny such a precept is wise ;
Lochlin's sons had fled before his angry spear: but But retirement accords with the tone of my mind :
mild was the eye of Calmar; soft was the flow of his I will not descend to a world I despise.
yellow locks: they streamed like the meteor of the
night. No inaid was the sigh of his soul: his thoughts Did the senate or camp my exertions require,
were given to friendship,-to dark-haired Orla, deAmbition might prompt me at once to go forth;
stroyer of heroes! Equal were their swords in battle; When infancy's years of probation expire,
but fierce was the pride of Orla :-gentle alone to Perchance I may strive to distinguish my birth.
Calmar. Together they dwelt in the cave of Oithona.
From Lochlin, Swaran bounded o'er the blue and in more modern times the fame of Marlborough, Frederick the Great, Count Saxe, Charles of Sweden, etc., are familiar to every historical reader; but the . This story, though considerably varied in the exact places of their birth are known to a very sinal catastrophe, is taken from Nisus and Euryalus, of proportion of their admirers.
which episode a translation is already given.
waves. Erin's sons fell beneath his might. Fingal the gale sighs on the rocks above. Lightly wheel the roused his chiefs to combat. Their ships cover the heroes through the slumbering band. Half the jour. ocean. Their hosts throng on the green hills. They ney is past, when Mathon, resting on his shield, ineets come to the aid of Erin.
the eye of Orla. It rolls in flame, and glistens through Night rose in clouds. Darkness veils the armies : the shade. His spear is raised on high. Why dost but the blazing oaks gleam through the valley. The thou bend thy brow, chief of Oithona?" said fair. sons of Lochlin slept: their dreams were of blood. haired Calmar: 'we are in the midst of foes. Is this They lift the spear in thought, and Fingal fies. Not a time for delay!" "It is a time for vengeance,' said so the host of Morven. To watch was the post of Orla of the gloomy brow. Mathon of Lochlin sleeps : Orla. Calmar stood by his side. Their spears were seest thou his spear? Its point is dim with the gore in their hands. Fingal called his chiefs : they stood of my father. The bluod of Mathon shall reek on around. The king was in the midst. Grey were his mine; but shall I slay him sleeping. son of Mora? locks, but strong was the arm of the king. Age No! he shall feel his wound: my fame shall not soar withered not his powers. “Sons of Morven,' said the on the blood of slumber. Rise, Mathon, rise! The hero, 'to-morrow we ineet the foe. But where is son of Conna calls; thy life is his; rise to combat.' Cuthullin the shield of Erin? He rests in the halls of Mathon starts from sleep; but did he rise alone ? Tura; he knows not of our coming. Who will speed No; the gathering chiefs bound on the plain. "Fly ! through Lochlin to the hero, and call the chief to Calmar, fly!" said dark-haired Orla. Mathon is arms? The path is by the swords of foes; but many inine: I shall die in joy: but Lochlin crowds around. are my heroes. They are thunderbolts of war. Fly through the shade of night.' Orla turns. The Speak, ye chiefs! Who will arise?
helm of Mathon is cleft; his shield falls from his arm: Son of Trenmor! mine be the deed,' said dark- he shudders in his blood. He rolls by the side of the haired Orla, 'and mine alone. What is death to me? blazing oak. Strumon sees him fall : hfs wrath rises : I love the sleep of the mighty, but little is the danger. his weapon glitters on the head of Orla: but a spear The sons of Lochlin dream. I will seek car-borne pierced his eye. His brain gushes through the wound, Cuthullin. If I fall, raise the song of bards; and lay and foams on the spear of Calinar. As roll the waves me by the stream of Lubar.' And shalt thou fall of the ocean on two mighty barks of the north, so alone?' said fair-haired Calmar. Wilt thou leave thy pour the men of Lochlin on the chiefs. As, breaking friend afar? Chief of Oithona! not feeble is my arm the surge in foam, proudly steer the barks of the in fight. Could I see thee die, and not lift the spear? north, so rise the chiefs of Morven on the scattered No, Orla! ours has been the chase of the roebuck, crests of Lochlin. The din of arms came to the ear and the feasts of shells; ours be the path of danger: of Fingal. He strikes his shield; his sons throng ours has been the cave of Oithona ; ours be the around; the people pour along the heath. Ryno narrow dwelling on the banks of Lubar.' 'Calmar,' bounds in joy. Ossian stalks in his arms. Oscar said the chief of Oithona, 'why should thy yellow shakes the spear. The eagle wing of Fillan floats on locks be darkened in the dust of Erin? Let me fall the wind. Dreadful is the clang of death! many are alone. My father dwells in his hall of air : he will the widows of Lochlin! Morven prevails in its rejoice in his boy ; but the blue-eyed Mora spreads strength. the feast for her son in Morven. She listens to the Morn glimmers on the hills: no living foe is seen; steps of the hunter on the heath, and thinks it is the but the sleepers are many; grim they lie on Erin. tread of Calmar. Let her not say, "Calmar has The breeze of ocean lifts their locks; yet they do not fallen by the steel of Lochlin: he died with gloomy awake. The hawks scream above their prey. Orla, the chief of the dark brow." Why should tears Whose yellow locks wave o'er the breast of a chief! dim the azure eye of Mora? Why should her voice Bright as the gold of the stranger, they mingle with curse Orla, the destroyer of Calinar? Live, Calmar! the dark hair of his friend. 'Tis Calmar: he lies on Live to raise my stone of moss; live to revenge me in the bosom of Orla. Theirs is one stream of blood. the blood of Lochlin. Join the song of bards above Fierce is the look of the gloomy Orla. He breathes my grave. Sweet will be the song of death to Orla not; but his eye is still a flame. It glares in death from the voice of Calmar. My ghost shall smile on unclosed. His hand is grasped in Calmar's; but the notes of praise.' 'Orla,' said the son of Mora, Calmar lives! he lives, though low, Rise,' said the 'could I raise the song of death to my friend ? Could king, rise, son of Mora: 'tis mine to heal the wounds I give his fame to the winds ? No, my heart of heroes. Calmar inay yet bound on the hills of would speak in sighs: faint and broken are the Morven.' sounds of sorrow, Orla ! our souls shall hear the song Never more shall Calmar chase the deer of Mor. together. One cloud shall be ours on high: the bards ven with Orla,' said the hero. What were the chase will ningle the names of Orla and Calinar.'
Ito me alone! Who should share the spoils of battle They quit the circle of the chicfs. Their steps are with Calmar? Orla is at rest! Rough was thy soul, to the host of Lochlin. The dying blaze of oak dim Orla! yet soft to me as the dew of morn. It glared twinkles through the night. The northern star points on others in lightning: to me a silver beam of night. the path to Tura. Swaran, the king, rests on his Bear my sword to blue-eyed Mora; let it hang in any lonely hill. Here the troops are mixed: they frown empty hall. It is not pure from blood: but it could in sleep; their shields beneath their heads. Their not save Orla. Lay me with my friend. Raise the swords gleann at distance in heaps. The fires are song when I am dark ! Caint; their embers fail in smoke. Al is hush'd ; but They are laid by the stream of Lubar. Four grey