Still, may I rove untutor'd, wild, And, even in age, at heart a child.

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.
Bat, 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,
When full'd by zephyr to repose.
Full often has my infant Muse

Attuned to love her languid lyre;
But now, without a theme to chuse,
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 recal;

In truth, dear L-, '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,
The aid which once improved their light,
And bade them burn with fiercer glow,

Now quenches all their sparks in night; Thus has it been with passion's fires,

As many a boy and girl remembers, While all the force of love expires,

Extinguish'd with the dying embers.

But now, dear L--, 't is midnight's noon,
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, Shall see her rolling orbit wend Above the dear-lov'd peaceful seat, Which once contain'd our youth's retreat; And then, with those our childhood knew, We ll mingle with the festive crew; While many a tale of former day Shall wing the laughing hours away; And all the flow of soul shall pour The sacred intellectual shower,

Nor cease, till Luna's waning horn

Scarce glimmers through the mist of Morn.

ΤΟ

OH! had my fate been join'd with thine,
As once this pledge appear'd a token,
These follies had not then been mine,
For then my peace had not been broken.
To thee these early faults I owe,

To thee, the wise and old reproving;
They know my sins, but do not know

T was thine to break the bonds of loving. For once my soul, like thine, was pure,

And all its rising fires could smother; But now thy vows no more endure, Bestow'd by thee upon another. Perhaps his peace I could destroy,

And spoil the blisses that await him;
Yet let my rival smile in joy,

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;
This cheek, now pale from early riot,
With Passion's hectic ne er had flush'd,
But bloom'd in calm domestic quiet.

Yes, once the rural scene was sweet,

For nature seem'd to smile before thee; And once my breast abhorr'd deceit,

For then it beat but to adore thee.
But now I seek for other joys;

To think would drive my soul to madness;
In thoughtless throngs and empty noise,
I conquer half my bosom's sadness.
Yet even in these a thought will steal,
In spite of every vain endeavour;
And fiends might pity what I feel,
To know that thou art lost for ever.

STANZAS.

I WOULD I were a careless child,

Still dwelling in my Highland cave,
Or roaming through the dusky wild,

Or bounding o'er the dark blue wave.
The cumbrous pomp of Saxon' pride
Accords not with the free-born soul,
Which loves the mountain's craggy side,
And seeks the rocks where billows roll.
Fortune! take back these cultured lands,
Take back this name of splendid sound!

I hate the touch of servile hands

I hate the slaves that cringe around:

1 Sassenagh, or Saxon, a Gaelic word signifying either Lowland or English.

Place me along 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; Ah! why do darkening shades conceal

The hour when man must cease to be?
Once I beheld a splendid dream,

A visionary scene of bliss;
Truth! wherefore did thy hated beam
Awake me to a world like this?

I loved-but those I loved are gone;
Had friends-my early friends are fled;
How cheerless feels the heart alone,

When all its former hopes are dead!
Though gay companions o'er the bowl
Dispel awhile the sense of ill,
Though Pleasure stirs the maddening soul,
The heart-the heart is lonely still.
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.

Give me again a faithful few,

In years and feelings still the same, And I will fly the midnight crew,

Where boisterous Joy is but a name.
And Woman! lovely Woman, thou,
My hope, my comforter, my all!
How cold must be my bosom now,
When e'en thy smiles begin to pall!
Without a sigh would I resign

This busy scene of splendid woe,
To make that calm contentment mine

Which Virtue knows, or seems to know.
Fain would I fly the haunts of men-
I seek to shun, not hate mankind;
My breast requires the sullen glen,
Whose gloom may suit a darken'd mind.
Oh! that to me the wings were given

Which bear the turtle to her nest!
Then would I cleave the vault of Heaven,
To flee away and be at rest.1

LINES

WRITTEN BENEATH AN ELM IN THE CHURCHYARD
OF HARROW-ON-THE-HILL.
SEPT. 2, 1807.

SPOT of my youth! whose hoary branches sigh,
Swept by the breeze that fans thy cloudless sky;
Where now alone I muse, who oft have trod,
With those I loved, thy soft and verdant sod;
With those who, scatter'd far, perchance deplore,
Like me,
the happy scenes they knew before:
Oh! as I trace again thy winding hill,
Mine eyes admire, my
heart adores thee still,
Thou drooping Elm! beneath whose boughs I lay,
And frequent mused the twilight hours away;
Where, as they once were wont, my limbs recline,
But ah! without the thoughts which then were mine:
'Psalm lv, v. 6. And I said, Oh! that I had wings like a dove,
then would I fly away and be at rest.. This verse also constitutes
a part of the most beautiful anthem in our language.

How do thy branches moaning to the blast,
Invite the bosom to recal the past;

And seem to whisper, as they gently swell,
«Take, while thou canst, a lingering last farewell!»
When Fate shall chill, at length, this fever'd breast,
And calm its cares and passions into rest,
Oft have I thought 't would sooth my dying hour,
If aught may sooth when life resigns her power,
To know some humbler grave, some narrow cell,
Would hide my bosom where it loved to dwell:
With this fond dream methinks 't were sweet to die-
And here it lingered, here my heart might lie;
Here might I sleep, where all my hopes arose,
Scene of my youth, and couch of my repose:
For ever stretch'd beneath this mantling shade,
Press'd by the turf where once my childhood play'd,
Wrapt by the soil that veils the spot I loved,
Mix'd with the earth o'er which my footsteps moved,
Blest by the tongues that charm'd my youthful ear,
Mourn'd by the few my soul acknowledged here,
Deplored by those in early days allied,

And unremember'd by the world beside.

THE DEATH OF CALMAR AND ORLA.

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 recals the sunny hours of moru. 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 sous had fled before his angry spear: but mild was the eye of Calmar; soft was the flow of his yellow locksthey 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 over the blue waves. Erin's sons fell beneath his night. 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 wither'd not his powers.

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 has been already given.

Hours of Idleness; a Series of Poems, original and translated. By GEORGE GORDON, LORD BYRON, a Minor. 8vo. pp. 200.-Newark, 1807.

THE poesy of this young Lord belongs to the class which neither gods nor men are said to permit. Indeed, we do not recollect to have seen a quantity of verse with so few deviations in either direction from that exact standard. His effusions are spread over a dead flat, and can no more get above or below the level, than if they were so much stagnant water. As an extenuation of this offence, the noble author is peculiarly forward in pleading minority. We have it in the title-page, and on the very back of the volume; it follows his name like a favourite part of his style. Much stress is laid upon it in the preface, and the poems are connected with this general statement of his case, by particular dates, substantiating the age at which each was written. Now, the law upon the point of minority we hold to be perfectly clear. It is a plea available only to the defendant; no plaintiff can offer it as a supplementary ground of action. Thus, if any suit could be brought against Lord Byron, for the purpose of compelling him to put into court a certain quantity of poetry, and if judgment were given against him, it is highly probable that an exception would be taken were he to deliver for poetry the contents of this volume, To this he might plead minority; but, as he now makes voluntary tender of the article, he hath no right to sue, on that ground, for the price in good current praise, should the goods be unmarketable. This is our view of the law on the point, and, we dare to say, so will it be ruled. Perhaps, however, in reality, all that he tells us about his youth is rather with a view to increase our wonder, than to soften our censures. He possibly means to say, << See how a minor can write! This poem was actually composed by a young man of eighteen, and this by one of only sixteen!»-But, alas! we all remember the poetry of Cowley at ten, and Pope at twelve; and so far from hearing, with any degree of surprise, that very poor verses were written by a youth from his leaving school to his leaving college, inclusive, we really believe this to be the most common of all occurrences; that it happens in the life of nine men in ten who are educated in England; and that the tenth man writes better verse than Lord Byron.

His other plea of privilege our author rather brings forward in order to waive it. He certainly, however, does allude frequently to his family and ancestorssometimes in poetry, sometimes in notes; and while giving up his claim on the score of rank, he takes care to remember us of Dr Johnson's saying, that when a nobleman appears as an author, his merit should be handsomely acknowledged. In truth, it is this consideration only, that induces us to give Lord Byron's poems a place in our review, beside our desire to counsel him, that he do forthwith abandon poetry, and turn his talents, which are considerable, and his opportunities, which are great, to better account.

With this view, we must beg leave seriously to assure him, that the mere rhyming of the final syllable, even when accompanied by the presence of a certain number of feet; nay, although (which does not always happen, those feet should scan regularly, and have been all counted accurately upon the fingers, it is not the whole art of poetry. We would entreat him to believe, that a certain portion of liveliness, somewhat of fancy, is necessary to constitute a poem, and that a poem in the present day, to be read, must contain at least one thought, either in a little degree different from the ideas of former writers, or differently expressed. We put it to his candour, whether there is any thing so deserving the name of poetry in verses like the following, written in 1806; and whether, if a youth of eighteen could say any thing so uninteresting to his ancestors, a youth of nineteen should publish it:

Shades of heroes, farewell! your descendant, departing
From the seat of his ancestors, bids you adieu!
Abroad or at home, your remembrance imparting
New courage, he'll think upon glory and you.

Though a tear dim his eye at this sad separation,
'Tis nature, not fear, that excites his regret:
Far distant he goes, with the same emulation;
The fame of his fathers he ne'er can forget.

That fame, and that memory, still will he cherish,
He vows that he ne'er will disgrace your renown;
Like
you will he live, or like you will he perish;
When decay'd, may he mingle his dust with your own..

Now we positively do assert, that there is nothing better than these stanzas in the whole compass of the noble minor's volume.

Lord Byron should also have a care of attempting what the greatest poets have done before him, for comparisons (as he must have had occasion to see at his writing-master's) are odious.—Gray's Ode on Eton | College should really have kept out the ten hobbling |¦ stanzas « On a distant view of the village and school of Harrow.»

Where fancy yet joys to retrace the resemblance
Of comrades, in friendship and mis hief allied;
How welcome to me your ne'er-tading remembrance,
Which rests in the Losom, though hope is denied.

In like manner, the exquisite lines of Mr Rogers « On a Tear, might have warned the noble author off those premises, and spared us a whole dozen such stanzas as │ the following:

Mild Charity's glow,
To us mortals below,
Shows th soul from Larbarity clear;
Compassion will melt,
Where this virtue is felt,
And its dew is diffused in a Tear.

-The man doom'd to sail, With the blast of th gale, Through billows Atlantic to steer,

As h bends over the wave, Which may soon be his grave, The green sparkles bright with a Tear.

Ah! gentle, fleeting, wavering sprite, Friend and associate of this clay!

To what unknown region lorne, Wilt thou now wing thy distant flight? No more with wonted humour gay,

But pallid, cheerless, and forlorn.»

However, be this as it may, we fear his translations and imitations are great favourites with Lord Byron. We have them of all kinds, from Anacreon to Ossian; and, viewing them as school exercises, they may pass. Only, why print them after they have had their day and served their turn? And why call the thing in p. 79,' a translation, where two words (Sew Deyttv) of the original are expanded into four lines, and the other thing in p. 81, where μesovutiais пol' dipais, is rendered by means of six hobbling verses? As to his Ossianic poesy, we are not very good judges, being, in truth, so moderately skilled in that species of composition, that we should, in all probability, be criticising some bit of the genuine Macpherson itself, were we to express our opinion of Lord Byron's rhapsodies. If, then, the following beginning of a «Song of Bards » is by his Lordship, we venture to object to it, as far as we can comprehend it. What form rises on the roar of clouds, whose dark ghost gleams on the red stream of tempests? His voice rolls on the thunder; 't is Oria, the brown chief of Oithona. He was,» etc. After detaining this brown chief » some time, the bards conclude by giving him their advice to raise his fair locks; then to spread them on the arch of the rainbow; » and « to smile through the tears of the storm.>> Of this kind of thing there are no less than nine pages; and we can so far venture an opinion in their favour, that they look very like Macpherson; and we are positive they are pretty nearly as stupid and tiresome.

It is a sort of privilege of poets to be egotists; but they should use it as not abusing it; » and particularly one who piques himself (though indeed at the ripe age of nineteen) of being an infant bard, » («The artless Helicon I boast is youth;»)—should either not know, or should seem not to know, so much about his own ancestry. Besides a poem above cited, on the family seat of the Byrons, we have another of eleven pages, on the self-same subject, introduced with an apology, he certainly had no intention of inserting it, but really « the particular request of some friends,» etc., etc. It concludes with five stanzas on himself, "the

• See page 10.

2 Page 11.

As the author has dedicated so large a part of his volume to immortalize his employments at school and college, we cannot possibly dismiss it without presenting the reader with a specimen of these ingenious effusions. In an ode with a Greek motto, called Granta, we have the following magnificent stanzas :

There, in apartments small and damp,
The candidate for college prizes
Sits poring, by the midnight lamp;
Goes late to bed, yet early rises.

Who reads false quantities in Sele,

Or puzzles o'er the deep triangle,
Deprived of many a wholesome meal,

In barbarous Latin doom'd to wrangle.
Renouncing every pleasing page,

From authors of historic use,
Preferring to the letter'd sage

The square of the hypothenuse,
Still harmless are these occupations,

That hurt none but the hapless student,
Compared with other recreations,

Which bring together the imprudent.

We are sorry to hear so bad an account of the college psalmody as is contained in the following Attic

stanzas:

. Our choir would scarcely be excused
Even as a hand of raw beginners;
All mercy now must be refused

To such a set of croaking sinners.
If David, when his toils were ended,

Had heard these blockheads sing before him,
To us his psalms had ne'er descended :

In furious mood he would have tore 'em!.

But whatever judgment may be passed on the poems of this noble minor, it seems we must take them as we find them, and be content; for they are the last we shall ever have from him. He is, at best, he says, but an intruder into the groves of Parnassus; he never lived in a garret, like thorough-bred poets; and « though he once roved a careless mountaineer in the Highlands of Scotland,» he has not of late enjoyed this advantage. Moreover, he expects no profit from his publication; and, whether it succeeds or not, a it is highly improbable, from his situation and pursuits hereafter, »> that he should again condescend to become an author. Therefore, let us take what we get, and be thankful. What We are well off right have we poor devils to be nice? to have got so much from a man of this Lord's station, who does not live in a garret, but has the sway » of Newstead Abbey. Again, we say, let us be thankful; and, with honest Sancho, bid God bless the giver, nor look the gift horse in the mouth.