to me a silver beam of night. Bear my sword For thine are pinions like the wind, to blue-eyed Mora; let it hang in my empty No trace of thee remains behind, hall. It is not pure from blood: but it could Except, alas! thy jealous stings. not save Orla. Lay me with my friend. Away, away! delusive power, the song when I am dark!' Thou shalt not haunt my coming hour; Unless, indeed, without thy wings. Raise They are laid by the stream of Lubar. Four grey stones mark the dwelling of Orla and Cal mar. 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'AMITIE EST L'AMOUR SANS AILES. WHY should my anxious breast repine, In tracing back the years of youth, Now bright in rays divine; To one idea fondly clings; Which tells the common tale; From yonder studious mansion rings; Friendship is Love without his wings!' Oh, Love! before thy glowing shrine My early vows were paid; My hopes, my dreams, my heart was thine, Seat of my youth! thy distant spire My bosom glows with former fire,— Thy grove of elms, thy verdant hill, But, oh, 'twill wake again. From this my hope of rapture springs; While youthful hearts thus fondly swell, Absence, my friend, can only tell, 'Friendship is Love without his wings!' In one, and one alone deceived, Did I my error mourn? No-from oppressive bonds relieved, I left the wretch to scorn. I turn'd to those my childhood knew, Twined with my heart's according strings Ye few! my soul, my life is yours, From smooth deceit and terror sprung, Let Adulation wait on kings; Friendship is Love without his wings! If laurell'd Fame but dwells with lies, Whose heart and not whose fancy sings THE PRAYER OF NATURE. FATHER of Light! great God of Heaven! Hear'st thou the accents of despair? Can guilt like man's be e'er forgiven? Thou seest my soul is dark within; Spare, yet amend, the faults of youth. Let superstition hail the pile, To Gothic domes of mouldering stone? Earth, ocean, heaven, thy boundless throne. Shall man condemn his race to hell, Unless they bend in pompous form? Must perish in the mingling storm? Whose years float on in daily crime- And live beyond the bounds of Time? Father! no prophet's laws I seek,- Thy laws in Nature's works appear ;I own myself corrupt and weak, Yet will I pray, for thou wilt hear! Thou, who canst guide the wandering star Through trackless realms of ather's space; Who calm'st the elemental war, Whose hand from pole to pole I trace: To Thee my God, to thee I call! By thy command I rise or fall, In thy protection I confide. If, when this dust to dust's restored, With clay the grave's eternal bed, To Thee I breathe my humble strain, Grateful for all thy mercies past, And hope, my God, to thee again This erring life may fly at last. TO EDWARD NOEL LONG, ESQ. I crush the fiend with malice fraught, I Granta's vale, the pedant's lore; 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 Will shed around some dews of spring: But if his scythe must sweep the flowers Which bloom among the fairy bowers, Where smiling Youth delights to dwell, And hearts with early rapture swell; If frowning Age, with cold control, Confines the current of the soul, Congeals the tear of Pity's eye, Or checks the sympathetic sigh, Or hears unmoved misfortune's groan, And bids me feel for self alone; Oh! may my bosom never learn To soothe its wonted heedless flow, Still, still despise the censor stern, But ne'er forget another's woe. Yes, as you knew me in the days O'er which Remembrance yet delays, 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. But, hence ye hours of sable hue! Your frowns are gone, my sorrows o'er: By every bliss my childhood knew, I'll think upon your shade no more, Thus, when the whirlwind's rage is past, Attuned to love her languid lyre; And Mary's given to another; Can now no more my love recall: The aid which once improved their light, 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 LONG, 'tis 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, And chased away the gloom profound, TO A LADY. 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 "Twas 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! "Twere 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 matrons' fears, These thoughtless strains to passion's mea sures If thou wert mine, had all been hush'd ;- Yes, once the rural scene was sweet, 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 endeavourAnd fiends might pity what I feel To know that thou art lost for ever. I WOULD I WERE A CARELESS CHILD. 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, I hate the touch of servile hands, Sassenach, or Saxon, a Gaelic word, signifying either Lowland or English. 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: A visionary scene of bliss! I loved-but those I loved are gone; When all its former hopes are dead! 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 boson now, When e'en thy smiles begin to pall! This busy scene of splendid woe, Whose gloom may suit a darken'd mind. WHEN I ROVED A YOUNG HIGHLANDER. WHEN I roved a young Highlander o'er the dark heath, [snow,† And climb'd thy steep summit, O Morven, of To gaze on the torrent that thunder'd beneath, Or the mist of the tempest that gather'd below,‡ And I said, Oh that I had wings like a dove! for then would I fly away, and be at rest.-Psalm lv. 6. This verse also constitutes a part of the most beautiful anthem in our language. Morven, a lofty mountain in Aberdeenshire. 'Gormal of snow' is an expression frequently to be found in Ossian. This will not appear extraordinary to those who have been accustomed to the mountains. It is by no means uncommon, on attaining the top of Ben-e-vis, Ben-y-bourd, etc., to per ceive, between the summit and the valley, clouds pouring Untutor'd by science, a stranger to fear, Yet it could not be love, for I knew not the name, 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, From mountain to mountain I bounded along; I breasted the billows of Dee's rushing tide, And heard at a distance the Highlander's song: At eve, on my heath-cover'd couch of repose, No dreams, save of Mary, were spread to my view; And warm to the skies my devotions arose, For the first of my prayers was a blessing on No home in the forest shall shelter my head,— Ah! Mary, what home could be mine but with you? TO GEORGE, EARL DELAWARR. OH! yes, I will own we were dear to each other, The friendships of childhood, though fleeting, are true; The love which you felt was the love of a brother, [fires. 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: [weather! In the spring of our life, how serene is the 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: The chance which is lost may in future redeem you, Repentance will cancel the vow you have made. I will not complain, and though chill'd is affection, With me no corroding resentment shall live: My bosom is calm'd by the simple reflection, That both may be wrong, and that both should forgive. You knew that my soul, that my heart, my existence, If danger demanded, were wholly your own; You knew me unalter'd by years or by distance, Devoted to love and to friendship alone. You knew, but away with the vain retrospection ! The bond of affection no longer endures; Too late you may droop o'er the fond recollection, And sigh for the friend who was formerly yours. For the present we part-I will hope not for ever; For time and regret will restore you at last : To forget our dissension we both should endea The bliss which wing'd those rosy hours My pensive memory lingers o'er 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 clegi, And both shall quit the shore. Our souls, my friend! which once supplied And shine in fashion's annals: 'Tis mine to waste on love my time, Without the aid of reason; Nor left a thought to seize on. That he, who sang before all- And yet, while Beauty's praise is thine, Repine not at thy lot. Thy soothing lays may still be read, And critics are forgot. Still I must yield those worthies merit, no chasten, with unsparing spirit, Bad rhymes and those who write them; Little was a nom de plume of Tom Moore's. + These lines were written soon after the appearance of a severe critique in a northern review on a new publication of the British Anacreon. |