It claims my warmest, dearest care, And banquet on a transient bliss: E'en when our lives are on the wane; In gently waving ringlet curl'd, Not though a thousand more adorn The polish'd brow where once you shone, Like rays which gild a cloudless morn, Beneath Columbia's fervid zone. LINES ADDRESSED TO THE REV. J. T. BECHER, ON DEAR Becher, you tell me to mix with mankind; Perchance I may strive to distinguish my birth. The fire in the cavern of Etna conceal'd, Still mantles unseen in its secret recess : At length in a volume terrific reveal'd, [press. No torrent can quench it, no bounds can reOh! thus the desire in my bosom for fame, Bids me live but to hope for posterity's praise. Could I soar with the phoenix on pinions of flame, With him I would wish to expire in the blaze. For the life of a Fox, of a Chatham the death, What censure, what danger, what woe would I brave! [breath; Their lives did not end when they yielded their Their glory illumines the gloom of their grave. Yet why should I mingle in Fashion's full herd? Why crouch to her leaders, or cringe to her rules? Why bend to the proud, or applaud the absurd? Why search for delight in the friendship of fools? I have tasted the sweets and the bitters of love; In friendship I early was taught to believe; My passion the matrons of prudence reprove ; I have found that a friend may profess, yet deceive. To me what is wealth ?-it may pass in an hour, If tyrants prevail, or if Fortune should frown: To me what is title?-the phantom of power; To me what is fashion?-I seek but renown. Deceit is a stranger as yet to my soul; I still am unpractised to varnish the truth: Then why should I live in a hateful control? Why waste upon folly the days of my youth? REMEMBRANCE. TIS done!-I saw it in my dreams; Love, Hope, and Joy, alike adieu ! 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 recalls 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 grey 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 streamed like the meteor of the night. No maid was the friendship,-to dark-haired Orla, destroyer of sigh of his soul: his thoughts were given to heroes! Equal were their swords in battle; but Calmar. Together they dwelt in the cave of fierce was the pride of Orla :-gentle alone to 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. is taken from Nisus and Euryalus, of which episode a trans This story, though considerably varied in the catastrophe, lation is already given To watch was the post of Orla. Calmar stood the heroes through the slumbering band. Half by his side. Their spears were in their hands. the journey is past, when Mathon, resting on his Fingal called his chiefs: they stood around. shield, meets the eye of Orla. It rolls in flame, The king was in the midst. Grey were his and glistens through the shade. His spear is locks, but strong was the arm of the king. Age raised on high. Why dost thou bend thy withered not his powers. 'Sons of Morven,' brow, chief of Oithona?' said fair-haired Calmar: said the hero, to-morrow we meet the foe. we are in the midst of foes. Is this a time for But where is Cuthullin, the shield of Erin? delay?' 'It is a time for vengeance,' said Orla He rests in the halls of Tura; he knows not of of the gloomy brow. Mathon of Lochlin sleeps: our coming. Who will speed through Lochlin seest thou his spear? Its point is dim with the to the hero, and call the chief to arms? The gore of my father. The blood of Mathon shall path is by the swords of foes; but many are my reek on mine; but shall I slay him sleeping, heroes. They are thunderbolts of war. Speak, son of Mora? No! he shall feel his wound: ye chiefs! Who will arise?' my fame shall not soar on the blood of slumber. 'Son of Trenmor! mine be the deed,' said Rise, Mathon, rise! The son of Conna calls; dark-haired Orla, and mine alone. What is thy life is his; rise to combat.' Mathon starts death to me? I love the sleep of the mighty, from sleep; but did he rise alone? No: the but little is the danger. The sons of Lochlin gathering chiefs bound on the plain. Fly! dream. I will seek car-borne Cuthullin. If I Calmar, fly !' said dark-haired Orla. 'Mathon fall, raise the song of bards; and lay me by the is mine. I shall die in joy: but Lochlin crowds stream of Lubar.'-'And shalt thou fall alone? around. Fly through the shade of night. Orla said fair-haired Calmar. Wilt thou leave thy turns. The helm of Mathon is cleft; his shield friend afar? Chief of Oithona! not feeble is falls from his arm: he shudders in his blood. my arm in fight. Could I see thee die, and not He rolls by the side of the blazing oak. Strulift the spear? No, Orla! ours has been the mon sees him fall: his wrath rises: his weapon chase of the roe-buck, and the feast of shells; glitters on the head of Orla: but a spear pierced ours be the path of danger: ours has been the his eye. His brain gushes through the wound, cave of Oithona; ours be the narrow dwelling and foams on the spear of Calmar. As roll the on the banks of Lubar.' 'Calmar,' said the waves of the ocean on two mighty barks of the chief of Oithona, 'why should thy yellow locks north, so pour the men of Lochlin on the chiefs. be darkened in the dust of Erin? Let me fall As, breaking the surge in foam, proudly steer alone. My father dwells in his hall of air: he the barks of the north, so rise the chiefs of Morwill rejoice in his boy; but the blue-eyed Mora ven on the scattered crests of Lochlin. The din spreads the feast for her son in Morven. She of arms came to the ear of Fingal. He strikes listens to the steps of the hunter on the heath, his shield; his sons throng around; the people and thinks it is the tread of Calmar. Let her pour along the heath. Ryno bounds in joy. not say, "Calmar has fallen by the steel of Ossian stalks in his arms. Oscar shakes the Lochlin he died with gloomy Orla, the chief spear. The eagle wing of Filian floats on the of the dark brow." Why should tears dim the wind. Dreadful is the clang of death! many azure eyes of Mora? Why should her voice are the widows of Lochlin! Morven prevails in curse Orla, the destroyer of Calmar? Live, its strength. Calmar! Live to raise my stone of moss; 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.' 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! They quit the circle of the chiefs. Their steps he lives, though low. Rise,' said the king, rise, are to the host of Lochlin. The dying blaze of son of Mora: 'tis mine to heal the wounds of oak dim twinkles through the night. The heroes. Calmar may yet bound on the hills of northern star points the path to Tura. Swain, the king, rests on his lonely hill. Here the 'Never more shall Calmar chase the deer of troops are mixed: they frown in sleep; their Morven with Orla,' said the hero. 'What were shields beneath their heads. Their swords gleam the chase to me alone? Who shall share the at distance in heaps. The fires are faint; their spoils of battle with Calmar? Orla is at rest! embers fail in smoke. All is hushed; but the Rough was thy soul, Orla! yet soft to me as the gale sighs on the rocks above. Lightly wheel dew of morn. It glared on others in lightning: Morven.' 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 Four They are laid by the stream of Lubar. grey 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. Seat of my youth! thy distant spire Recalls each scene of joy ; My bosom glows with former fire,— In mind again a boy. 'What form rises on the roar of clouds? | Whose dark ghost gleams on the red streams of Thy grove of elms, thy verdant hill, tempests? His voice rolls on the thunder. "Tis Thy every path delights me still, Each flower a double fragrance flings; Orla, the brown chief of Oithona. He was unmatched in war. Peace to thy soul, Orla! thy Again, as once, in converse gay, fame will not perish. Nor thine, Calmar! Each dear associate seems to say, 'Friendship is Love without his wings!' Lovely wast thou, son of blue-eyed Mora; but not harmless was thy sword. It hangs in thy My Lycus! wherefore dost thou weep? The ghosts of Lochlin shriek around its Thy falling tears restrain ; steel. Hear thy praise, Calmar! It dweils on Affection for a time may sleep, 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.' cave. L'AMITIE EST L'AMOUR SANS AILES. WHY should my anxious breast repine, Days of delight may still be mine; Affection is not dead. In tracing back the years of youth, Celestial consolation brings; To one idea fondly clings; Which tells the common tale; Round this unconscious schoolboys stray, From yonder studious mansion rings; Friendship is Love without his wings!' Oh, Love! before thy glowing shrine My hopes, my dreams, my heart was thine, But, oh, 'twill wake again. Think, think, my friend, when next we meet,' Our long-wish'd interview, how sweet! 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 From smooth deceit and terror sprung, 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? Tell us that all, for one who fell, Must perish in the mingling storm? Or doctrines less severe inspire? 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 æther'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 : These last should be confined to one. 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 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 hard has trod before? Yet ere yon silver lamp of night Has thrice perform'd her stated round, And chased away the gloom profound, Which once contain'd our youth's retreat ; Shall wing the laughing hours away; 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, To think would drive my soul to madness; 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, 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. Sassenach, or Saxon, a Gaelic word, signifying either Lowland or English. |