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 WHY should my anxious breast repine, Days of delight may still be mine; In tracing back the years of youth, One firm record, one lasting truth heCelestial consolation brings; 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, To one idea fondly clings; Where yonder yew-trees lightly wave Which tells the common tale; 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 hopes, my dreams, my heart was thine, Except, alas! thy jealous stings. In one, and one alone, deceived, Did I my error mourn? I turn'd to those my childhood knew, Twined with my heart's according strings; Ye few! my soul, my life is yours, Unfetter'd in its scope; 71 From smooth deceit and terror sprung, Fictions and dreams inspire the bard Who rolls the epic song; If laurell'd Fame but dwells with lies, Whose heart and not whose fancy sings; To Gothic domes of mouldering stone? Shall man condemn his race to hell, Shall each pretend to reach the skies, 21 30 Thou, who in wisdom placed me here, Ah! whilst I tread this earthly sphere, To Thee, my God, to thee I call! If, when this dust to dust 's restored, But, if this fleeting spirit share 50 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. 60 TO EDWARD NOEL LONG, ESQ. Which spreads the sign of future peace Or if, in melancholy mood, Some lurking envious fear intrude, 20 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 To soothe its wonted heedless flow; 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, 30 40 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; In truth, dear LONG, 't was time to flee; 70 80 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, 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, Perhaps his peace I could destroy, For thy dear sake I cannot hate him. Ah! since thy angel form is gone, Then fare thee well, deceitful maid! 20 [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 |