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 should 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 roar 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 blue-eyed 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." L'AMITIÉ EST L'AMOUR SANS AILES. WHY should my anxious breast repine, Because my youth is fled? Days of delight may still be mine; Affection is not dead. In tracing back the years of youth, Through few, but deeply chequer'd years, Where yonder yew-trees lightly wave Which tells the common tale; From yonder studious mansion rings; Oh, Love! before thy glowing shrine My hopes, my dreams, my heart was thine, For thine are pinions like the wind, Except, alas! thy jealous stings. Seat of my youth! thy distant spire My bosom glows with former fire,- Thy grove of elms, thy verdant hill. Each flower a double fragrance flings; My Lycus! wherefore dost thou weep? But, oh, 't will wake again. From this my hope of rapture springs; "Friendship is Love without his wings!" I turn'd to those my childhood knew, Ye few! my soul, my life is yours, Unfetter'd in its scope; From smooth deceit and terror sprung Fictions and dreams inspire the bard Friendship and truth be my reward- If laurell'd Fame but dwells with lies, Whose heart and not whose fancy sings; December, 1806. THE PRAYER OF NATURE. Father of Light, on thee I call! Thou seest my soul is dark within; No shrine I seek, to sects unknown; Spare, yet amend, the faults of youth. Let bigots rear a gloomy fane, Let superstition hail the pile, Let priests, to spread their sable reign, Shall man confine his Maker's sway To Gothic domes of mouldering stone? Thy temple is the face of day; Earth, ocean, heaven, thy boundless throne. Shall man condemn his race to hell, D Shall these, by creeds they can't expound, Yet will I pray, for thou wilt hear! Whose hand from pole to pole I trace: Thou, who in wisdom placed me here, Extend to me thy wide defence. To Thee, my God, to thee I call! Whatever weal or woe betide, With clay the grave's eternal bed, Grateful for all thy mercies past, And hope, my God, to thee again This erring life may fly at last. December 29, 1806. [First published, 1830.] TO EDWARD NOEL LONG, ESQ. "Nil ego contulerim jocundo sanus amico."-HOR. I hail the sky's celestial bow, I crush the fiend with malice fraught, Although we ne'er again can trace, Our raptured visions as before, Yes, I will hope that Time's broad wing To soothe its wonted heedless flow Though now on airy visions borne, 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. My youthful nymphs, alas! are flown; E is a wife, and C a mother, And Carolina sighs alone, And Mary's given to another; And Cora's eye, which roll'd on me, Can now no more my love recall: In truth, dear LONG, 't was time to flee; For Cora's eye will shine on all. And though the sun, with genial rays, His beams alike to all displays, And every lady's eye's a sun, These last should be confined to one. The soul's meridian don't become her, Whose sun displays a general summer! Thus faint is every former flame, And passion's self is now a name. As, when the ebbing flames are low, As many a boy and girl remembers, But now, dear LONG, 'tis midnight's no on, And clouds obscure the watery moon, Whose beauties I shall not rehearse, Described in every stripling's verse; For why should I the path go o'er, Which every bard has trod before? Yet ere yon silver lamp of night 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, TO A LADY. OH! had my fate been join'd with thine, To thee, the wise and old reproving: "T was thine to break the bonds of loving. For once my soul, like thine, was pure, Perhaps his peace I could destroy, For thy dear sake I cannot hate him. Ah! since thy angel form is gone, My heart no more can rest with any; But what it sought in thee alone, Attempts, alas! to find in many. Then fare thee well, deceitful maid! "T were vain and fruitless to regret thee; Nor hope nor memory yield their aid, But pride may teach me to forget thee. 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:- For Nature seem'd to smile before thee; But now I seek for other joys: To think would drive my soul to madness; Give me again a faithful few, In years and feelings still the same, And I will fly the midnight crew, Where boist'rous joy is but a name. And woman, lovely woman! thou, This busy scene of splendid woe, I WOULD I WERE A CARELESS CHILD. I WOULD I were a careless child, Still dwelling in my Highland cave, Accords not with the freeborn soul, I hate the touch of servile hands, I hate the slaves that cringe around. Place me among the rocks I love, Which sound to Ocean's wildest roar; I ask but this-again to rove Through scenes my youth hath known before. Few are my years, and yet I feel The world was ne'er design'd for me: I loved-but those I loved are gone; Though pleasure stirs the maddening soul, How dull! to hear the voice of those Whom rank or chance, whom wealth or power, Have made, though neither friends nor foes, Associates of the festive hour. WHEN I ROVED A YOUNG HIGHLANDER. WHEN I roved a young Highlander o'er the dark heath, [snow! And climb'd thy steep summit, oh Morven of To gaze on the torrent that thunder'd beneath, Or the mist of the tempest that gather'd below, Untutor'd by science, a stranger to fear, And rude as the rocks where my infancy grew, No feeling, save one, to my bosom was dear; Need I say, my sweet Mary, 't was centred in you? Yet it could not be love, for I knew not the name,What passion can dwell in the heart of a child? But still I perceive an emotion the same As I felt, when a boy, on the crag-cover'd wild One image alone on my bosom impress'd, I loved my bleak regions, nor panted for new; And few were my wants, for my wishes were bless'd; [with you. And pure were my thoughts, for my soul was I arose with the dawn; with my dog as my guide, I breasted the billows of Dee's rushing tide, No dreams, save of Mary, were spread to my And warm to the skies my devotions arose, [view; For the first of my prayers was a blessing on you. I left my bleak home, and my visions are gone; For time and regret will restore you at last: To forget our dissension we both should endeavour, I ask no atonement, but days like the past. When I see some dark hill point its crest to the sky, | For the present, we part,-I will hope not for ever; The locks that were sacred to beauty, and you. But glows not, like Love, with unquenchable Full oft have we wander'd through Ida together, And blest were the scenes of our youth, I allow : In the spring of our life, how serene is the weather! But winter's rude tempests are gathering now. No more with affection shall memory blending, The wonted delights of our childhood retrace: When pride steels the bosom, the heart is unbending, And what would be justice appears a disgrace. However, dear George, for I still must esteem you; The few whom I love I can never upbraid: [you, The chance which has lost may in future redeem Repentance will cancel the vow you have made. I will not complain, and though chill'd is affection, You knew, but away with the vain retrospection! FRIEND of my youth! when young we roved, With friendship's purest glow, The recollection seems alone When distant far from you: Though pain, 't is still a pleasing pain, My pensive memory lingers o'er And we may meet-ah! never! As when one parent spring supplies How soon, diverging from their source, Our vital streams of weal or woe, Now swift or slow, now black or clear, And both shall quit the shore. Our souls, my friend! which once supplied Without the aid of reason; Poor LITTLE! sweet, melodious bard! |