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.

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

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: 't is 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 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

Bear it, ye breezes, to the seat

Where first my heart responsive beat, 'Friendship is Love without his wings!' 10

Through few, but deeply chequer'd years,
What moments have been mine!
Now half obscured by clouds of tears,
Now bright in rays divine;
Howe'er my future doom be cast,
My soul, enraptured with the past,

To one idea fondly clings;
Friendship! that thought is all thine own,
Worth worlds of bliss, that thought alone
'Friendship is Love without his wings!'

Where yonder yew-trees lightly wave
Their branches on the gale,
Unheeded heaves a simple grave,

Which tells the common tale;
Round this unconscious schoolboys stray,
Till the dull knell of childish play

From yonder studious mansion rings; But here whene'er my footsteps move, My silent tears too plainly prove,

2C

'Friendship is Love without his wings!' 30

Oh, Love before thy glowing shrine
My early vows were paid;

My hopes, my dreams, my heart was thine,
But these are now decay'd;
For thine are pinions like the wind,
No trace of thee remains behind,

Except, alas! thy jealous stings.

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,
With feelings warm, with bosoms true,

Twined with my heart's according strings;
And till those vital chords shall break,
For none but these my breast shall wake
Friendship, the power deprived of wings!

Ye few! my soul, my life is yours,
My memory and my hope;
Your worth a lasting love ensures,

Unfetter'd in its scope;

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From smooth deceit and terror sprung,
With aspect fair and honey'd tongue,
Let Adulation wait on kings;
With joy elate, by snares beset,
We, we, my friends, can ne'er forget,
'Friendship is Love without his wings!' 80

Fictions and dreams inspire the bard

Who rolls the epic song;
Friendship and Truth be my reward -
To me no bays belong;

If laurell'd Fame but dwells with lies,
Me the enchantress ever flies,

Whose heart and not whose fancy sings;

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,
Unless they bend in pompous form?
Tell us that all, for one who fell,
Must perish in the mingling storm?

Shall each pretend to reach the skies,
Yet doom his brother to expire,
Whose soul a different hope supplies,
Or doctrines less severe inspire?

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Thou, who in wisdom placed me here,
Who, when thou wilt, canst take me
hence,

Ah! whilst I tread this earthly sphere,
Extend to me thy wide defence.

To Thee, my God, to thee I call!
Whatever weal or woe betide,
By thy command I rise or fall,
In thy protection I confide.

If, when this dust to dust 's restored,
My soul shall float on airy wing,
How shall thy glorious name adored
Inspire her feeble voice to sing!

But, if this fleeting spirit share

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With clay the grave's eternal bed, While life yet throbs I raise my prayer, Though doom'd no more to quit the dead.

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. December 29, 1806.

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TO EDWARD NOEL LONG, ESQ.
Nil ego contulerim jucundo sanus amico. - HORACE.
DEAR LONG, in this sequester'd scene,
While all around in slumber lie,
The joyous days which ours have been
Come rolling fresh on Fancy's eye;
Thus if amidst the gathering storm,
While clouds the darken'd noon deform,
Yon heaven assumes a varied glow,
I hail the sky's celestial bow

Which spreads the sign of future peace
And bids the war of tempests cease.
Ah! though the present brings but pain,
I think those days may come again;

Or if, in melancholy mood,

Some lurking envious fear intrude,
To check my bosom's fondest thought,
And interrupt the golden dream,
I crush the fiend with malice fraught,
And still indulge my wonted theme.
Although we ne'er again can trace,

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In Granta's vale, the pedant's lore; Nor through the groves of Ida chase Our raptured visions as before; Though Youth has flown on rosy pinion, And Manhood claims his stern dominion-x 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,

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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, 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,

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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.

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 "I was thine to break the bonds of loving

For once my soul, like thine, was pure,
And all its rising fires could smother; Ic
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!

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[The 'Mary' of this poem is not Mrs. Cha worth Musters, nor is it his distant cousin Mary Duff, but the daughter of James Robertson, of the farmhouse of Ballatrich on Deeside.] WHEN I roved a young Highlander o'er the dark heath,

And climb'd thy steep summit, oh Morven of snow!

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