With shame, I own, I've felt thy sway, No more on fancied pinions soar: Romance! disgusted with deceit, Whose silly tears can never flow For any pangs excepting thine; Who turns aside from real woe, To steep in dew thy gaudy shrine: Now join with sable Sympathy, With cypress crown'd, array'd in weeds; Who heaves with thee her simple sigh, Whose breast for every bosom bleeds; And call thy sylvan female quire, To mourn a swain for ever gone, Who once could glow with equal fire, But bends not now before thy throne. Ye genial Nymphs, whose ready tears, Adieu! fond race, a long adieu! The hour of fate is hovering nigh; Even now the gulf appears in view, Where unlamented you must lie: Oblivion's blackening lake is seen Convulsed by gales you cannot weather, Where you, and eke your gentle queen, Alas! must perish altogether. ELEGY ON NEWSTEAD ABBEY It is the voice of years that are gone! they roll before me with all their deeds. OSSIAN. NEWSTEAD! fast falling, once resplendent dome! Religion's shrine! repentant HENRY'S pride! Of Warriors, Monks, andDames the cloister'd tomb, Whose pensive shades around thy ruins glide: Hail! to thy pile! more honour'd in thy fall, Than modern mansions in their pillar'd state; Proudly majestic frowns thy vaulted hall Scowling defiance on the blasts of fate. No mail-clad Serfs, obedient to their Lord, | Of changing sentinels the distant hum, « In grim array, the crimson cross demand; But not from thee, dark pile! departs the His feudal realm in other regions lay; Yes, in thy gloomy cells and shades profound, Or Innocence from stern Oppression flew. A Monarch bade thee from that wild arise, 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, An abbey once, a regal fortress now, 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 Self-gather'd laurels on a self-sought grave; But Charles' protecting genius hither flew, The monarch's friend, the monarch's hope, to save. 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 with fire, Or sings the glories of the martial wreath. At length, the sated murderers, gorged 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; Such simple sports our plain forefathers knew ; No splendid vices glitter'd to allure, 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 These, these he views, and views them but to weep. Earth shudders as her cave receives his bones, The legal Ruler now resumes the helm, state: 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 murmur '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. Culture again adorns the gladdening vale, THE DEATH OF CALMAR AND ORLA. 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 courser's 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. 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 recale 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?" "Son of Trenmor! mine be the deed," said dark-haired Orla, "and mine alone. What is death to me? I love the sleep of the mighty, but little is the danger. The sons of Lochlin dream. I will seek carborne Cuthullin. If I 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 frien 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 feast of shells; ours be the path of danger: ours has been the cave of Öithona; 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 f、st for her son in Morven. She listens to the steps of the hanter 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! 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 hushed; 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 Oithona ?” 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 Connal 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 darkhaired Orla; “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 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. 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 Orla. 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 hue, 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, |