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foes. Is this a time for delay ?" “ It is a time for His voice rolls on the thunder. "Tis Orla, the vengeance," said Orla of the gloomy brow. “ Mathon brown chief of Oithona. He was unmatched in war. of Lochlin sleeps: seest thou his spear? Its point Peace to thy soul, Orla! thy fame will not perish. is dim with the gore of my father. The blood of Nor thine, Calmar! Lovely wast thou, son of blue. Mathon shall reek on mine; but shall I slay him eyed Mora ; but not harmless was thy sword. It sleeping, son of Mora? No! he shall feel his wound: hangs in thy cave. The ghosts of Lochlin shriek my fame shall not soar on the blood of slumber. around its steel. Hear thy praise, Calmar! It Rise, Mathon, rise ! The son of Conna calls; thy dwells on the voice of the mighty. Thy name life is his ; rise to combat." Mathon starts from shakes on the echoes of Morven. Then raise thy sleep; but did he rise alone ? No: the gathering fuir locks, son of Mora. Spread them on the arch chiefs bound on the plain. “ Fly! Calmar, fly!" of the rainbow; and smile through the tears of the said dark-haired Orla. - Mathon is mine. I shall storm." die in joy: but Lochlin crowds around. Fly through the shade of night.” Orla turns. The helm of Mathon is cleft; his shield falls from his arm : he shudders in his blood. He rolls by the side of the blazing oak. Strumon sees him fall: his wrath rises : his weapon glitters on the head of Orla : but a spear pierced his eye. His brain gushes through the wound,

L'AMITIÉ EST L'AMOUR SANS AILES. and foams on the spear of Calmar. As roll the waves of the Ocean on two mighty barks of the north, so

Why should my anxious breast repine, pour the men of Lochlin on the chiefs. As, breaking

Because my youth is fled ? the surge in foam, proudly steer the barks of the

Days of delight may still be mine; north, so rise the chiefs of Morven on the scattered

Affection is not dead. crests of Lochlin. The din of arins came to the ear

In tracing back the years of yonth, of Fingal. He strikes his shield; his sons throug

One firm record, one lasting truth around ; the people pour along the heath. Ryno Celestial consolation brings; bounds in joy. Ossian stalks in his arms. Oscar

Bear it, ye breezes, to the seat shakes the spear. The eagle wing of Fillan floats on

Where first my heart responsive beat, the wind. Dreadful is the clang of death! many

Friendship is Love without his wings!" are the widows of Lochlin! Morven prevails in its strength. Morn glimmers on the hills : no living foe is seen;

Through few, but deeply checker'd years,

What moments have been mine! but the sleepers are many; grim they lie on Erin.

Now half obscured by clouds of tears, The breeze of ocean lifts their locks; yet they do not awake. The hawks scream above their prey.

Now bright in rays divine;

Howe'er my future doom be cast, Whose yellow locks wave o'er the breast of a chief ? Bright as the gold of the stranger, they

My soul, enraptured with the past,

To one idea fondly clings; mingle with the dark hair of his friend. "Tis Calmar: he lies on the bosom of Orla. Theirs is one

Friendship! that thought is all thine own,

Worih worlds of bliss, that thought alonestream of blood. Fierce is the look of the gloomy Orla. He breathes not ; but his eye is still a flame.

“ Friendship is Love without his wings!" It glares in death unclosed. His hand is grasped in Calmar's; but Calmar lives! he lives, though low.

Where yonder yew-trees lightly wave “ Rise,” said the king, “rise, son of Mora : 'tis mine

Their branches on the gale, to heal the wounds of heroes. Calmar may yet

Unheeded heaves a simple grave, bound on the hills of Morven."

Which tells the common tale; - Never inore shall Calmar chase the deer of Mor

Round this unconscious schoolboys stray, ven with Orla," said the hero. " What were the

Till the dull knell of childish play chase to me alone? Who should share the spoils of

From yonder studious mansion rings: battle with Calmar ? Orla is at rest! Rough was thy

But here whene'er my footsteps move, soul, Orla! yet soft to me as the dew of morn. It My silent tears too plainly prove, glared on others in lightning: to me a silver beam of

Friendship is Love without his wings!" light. Bear my sword to blue-eyed Mora ; let it hang in my empty hall. It is not pure from blood: but it Oh Love! before thy glowing shrine could not save Orla. Lay me with my friend. Raise My early vows were paid ; the song when I am dark!"

My hopes, my dreams, my heart was thine, They are laid by the stream of Lubar.

But these are now decay'd; stones mark the dwelling of Orla and Calmar. When For thine are pinions like the wind, Swaran was bound, our sails rose on the blue waves. No trace of thee remains behind, The winds gave our barks to Morven :-the bards Except, alas! thy jealous stings. raised the song.

Away, away! delusive power, • What forin rises on the roar of clouds ? Whose Thou shalt not haunt my coming hour; dark ghost gleams on the red streams of tempests ? Unless, indeed, without thy wings.

Four gray

1 I fear Laing's later edition has completely overthrown every hope that Macpherson's Ossian might prove the translation of a series of poems complete in themselves ; bu:, while the imposture is discovered, the merit of the work remains undisputed, though not without faults-particularly, in some parts, turgid and bombastic diction. The

present humble imitation will be pardoned by the admirers of the original as an attempt, however inferior, wluch evinces an attachment to their favorite author.

? [See anté, p. 419, note. We insert this poem here on account of the date of its composition. It was not, however, included in the publication of 1807.]

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1 Harrow.

(The Earl of Clare.-See p. 416.) began in his mind." In reading the celebrated critique of

the Edinburgh Review on the “Hours of Idleness, the • (The young poet had recently received from Lord Clare,

fact that the volume did not include this poem, ought to be an epistle containmg this passage :-" I think by your last better that you are very much piqued with most of your

kept in mind.) fnends : and, if I am not much mistaken, a little so with (The poet appears to have had in his mind one of Mr. lit. In one part you say, there is little or no doubt a few Southey's juvenile pieces, beginning,Fears, or months, will render us as politely indifferent to

“ Go, thou, unto the house of prayer, each other, as if we had never passed a portion of our time Logether :' indeed, Byron, you wrong me ; and I have no

I to the woodlands will repair." doubl—at least I hope--you wrong yourself.")

See also Childe Harold, canto ini. st. 91 – ' [It is difficult to conjecture for what reason,--but these "Not vainly did the early Persian make Stalizas were not included in the publication of 1807 ; though

His altar the high places and the peak few will hesitate to place them higher than any thing given in Of earth-o'ergazing mountains, and thus take that volume. “Written when the author was not nineteen A fit and unwall'd temple, there to seek Fears of age, this remarkable poer shows,” says Moore, The Spirit, in whose honor shrines are weak 's bow early the struggle between natural piety and doubt Upreard of humun hands,” &c.]

Thou, who in wisdom placed me here,

Who, when thou wilt, can take me hence Ah! whilst I tread this earthly sphere,

Extend to me thy wide defence.

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To Thee, my God, to Thee I call !

Whatever weal or wo 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

With clay the grave's eternal bed, While life yet throbs, I raise my prayer,

Though doom'd no more to quit the dead.

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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. [First published, 1830.]

TO EDWARD NOEL LONG, ESQ.' Nil ego contulerim jocundo sanus amico.-HOR. 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,

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 dominionAge will not every hope destroy, But yield some hours of sober joy.

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 wo.
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 pass'd,

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 rollid on me,

Can now no more my love recall:
In truth, dear Long, 'twas 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.

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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,

But now,

dear Long, 'tis midnight's noon, Aud clouds obscure the watery moon, Whose beauties I shall not rehearse, Described in every stripling's verse;

? [This young gentleman, who was with Lord Byron both convoy. “Long's father," says Lord Byron, “wrote to me at Harrow and Cambridge, afterwards entered the Guards, to wriie his son's epitaph. I promised-but I had not the and served with distinction in the expedition to Copen- heart to complete it. He was such a good, amiable being hagen

He was drowned early in 1809, when on his way as rarely remains long in this world, with talent and ac to join the army in the Peninsula ; the transport in which complishments, 100, to make him the more regretted he sailed being run foul of in the night by another of the Byron Diary, 1821.)

If thou wert mine, had all been hush'd :

This cheek now pale from early riot, With passion's hectic ne'er had Aush'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.

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, ny gentle friend, Shall see her rolling orbit wend Above the dear-loved peaceful seat Which once contain'd our youth's retreat ;' And then with those our childhood knew, We'll mingle in the festive crew; While many a tale of former day Shall wing the laughing hours away, And all the flow of souls shall pour The sacred intellectual shower, Nor cease till Luna's

ing horn Scarce glimmers through the mist of morn.

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 boson's sadness. Yet, even in these a thought will steal,

In spite of every vain endeavor,And fiends might pity what I feel,-

To know that thou art lost forever.

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The two friends were both passionately attached to Harrow; and sometimes made excursions thither together, to revive their schoolboy recollections.) Mrs. Masters. See entė, p. 394.] 3 *** Our union would have healed feuds in which blood had Seea shel by our faihers--it would have joined lands broad and rich-it would have joined at least one heart, and two Det ons notill matched in years, (she is two years iny elder,)

-and-and-what has been the result?”- Byron Diary,

ardor was all on my side. I was serious; she was volatile: she liked me as a younger brother, and treated and laughed at me as a boy; she, however, gave me her picture, and that was something to make verses upon. Had I married her, perhaps the whole tenor of my life would have been different."]

5 Sassenach, or Saxon, a Gaelic word, signifying either Lowland or English.

[The“ imagination all compact," which the greatest poet who ever lived has assigned as the distinguishing badge of his brethren, is in every case a dangerous gift. It exaggerates, indeed, our expectations, and can often bid its possessor hope, where hope is lost to reason: but the delusive pleasure arising from these visions of imagination resembles that of a child,

*{* Our meetings." says Lord Byron, in 1822, “ were stolen Oles, and a gate leading from Mr. Chaworth's grounds to ihose of my mother was the place of our interviews. But the

How dull! to hear the voice of those

Yet it could not be love, for I knew not the name Whom rank or chance, whom wealth or power, What passion can dwell in the heart of a child? Have made, though neither friends nor foes, But still I perceive an emotion the same Associates of the festive hour.

As I felt, when a boy, on the crag-cover'd wild: Give me again a faithful few,

Ono image alone on my bosom impress d, In years and feelings still the same,

I loved my bleak regions, nor panted for new; And I will fly the midnight crew,

And few were my wants, for my wishes were bless'd; Where boist'rous joy is but a name.

And pure were my thoughts, for my soul was with

you. And woman, lovely woman! thou, My hope, my comforter, my all!

I arose with the dawn: with my dog as my guide, How cold must be my bosom now,

From mountain to mountain Í bounded along ; When e'en thy smiles begin to pall!

I breasted the billows of Dee's rushing tide, Without a sigh would I resign

And heard at a distance the Highlander's song: This busy scene of splendid wo,

At eve, on my heath-cover'd couch of repose, To make that calm contentment mine,

No dreams, save of Mary, were spread to my vier; Which virtue knows, or seems to know.

And warm to the skies my devotions arose,

For the first of iny prayers was a blessing on you. Fain would I fly the haunts of menI seek to shun, not hate mankind;

I left my bleak home, and my visions are gone ; My breast requires the sullen glen,

The mountains are vanish d, my youth is no more ;

As the last of my race, I must wither alone,
Whose gloom may suit a darken'd mind.
Oh! that to me the wings were given

And delight but in days I have witness'd before : Which bear the turtle to her nest!

Ah! splendor has raised, but embitter'd, my lot; Then would I cleave the vault of heaven,

More dear were the scenes which my infancy knew: To fee away, and be at rest.'

Though my hopes may have fail'd, yet they are

forgot ;

Though cold is my heart, still it lingers with you. WHEN I ROVED A YOUNG HIGHLANDER. When I see some dark hill point its crest to the sky,

I think of the rocks that o'ershadow Colbleen; When I roved a young Highlander o’er the dark When I see the soft blue of a love-speaking eye, heath,

I think of those eyes that endear'd the rude scene; And climb'd thy steep summit, oh Morven of snow! When, haply, some light-waving locks 1 behold, To gaze on the torrent that thunder'd beneath,

That faintly resemble my Mary's in hue, Or the mist of the tempest that gather'd below, I think on the long-flowing ringlets of gold, Untutor’d by science, a stranger to fear,

The locks that were sacred to beauty, and you. And rude as the rocks where my infancy grew, No feeling, save one, to my bosom was dear; Yet the day may arrive when the mountains once more

Need I say, my sweet Mary,' 'twas centred in you ? Shall rise to my sight in their mantles of snow: whose notice is attracted by a fragment of glass to which a an age when I could neither feel passion, nor know the sunbeam has given momentary splendor. He hastens to the meaning of the word. And the effect! My mother set spot with breathless impatience, and finds the object of his always to rally me about this childish amour; and, a: ast. curiosity and expectation is equally vulgar and worthless. many years after, when I was sixteen, she told me one das; Such is the man of quick and exalted powers of imagination. Oh, Byron, I have had a letter from Edinburgh, from Miss His fancy over-estimates the object of his wishes, and plea Abercromby, and your old sweetheart, Mary Duff. is marr sure, fame, distinction, are alternately pursued, attained, and to a Mr. Cockburn.' (Robert Cockburn, Esq. of Edinburgh. despised when in his power. Like the enchanted fruit in And what was my answer? I really cannot explan or ac. the palace of a sorcerer. the objects of his admiration lose count for my feelings at that moment, but they destit their attraction and value as soon as they are grasped by the threw me into convulsions-to the horror of my motber, lo adventurer's hand, and all that remains ís regret for the time the astonishment of everybody. And it is a phenonecon lost in the chase, and astonishment at the hallucination un my existence (for I was not eight years old) which has der which it was undertaken. The disproportion between puzzled, and will puzzle me to the latest hour of it."--agaili hope and possession, which is felt by all men, is thus doubled in January, 1815, a few days after his marriage, in a lt": to those whom nature has endowed with the power of gilding to his friend Captain Hay, the poet thus speaks of his chik a distant prospect by the rays of imagination. These reflec ish attachment:-" Pray tell me more-or as much as per tions, though irite and obvious, are in a manner forced from like, of your cousin Mary. I believe I told you our story us by the poetry of Lord Byron,-by the sentiments of weari some years ago. I was twenty-seven a few days ago, ami ness of life and enmity with the world which they so frequent have never seen her since we were children, and you ly express, -and by the singular analogy which such senti. children too; but I never forget her, nor ever can.' Tec ments hold with well-known incidents of his life.-SIR W. will oblige me with presenting her with my best respetes Scott.)

and all good wishes. It may seem ridiculous-but it is, a: 1 ** And I said, Oh! that I had wings like a dove ; for then any rate, I hope, not offensive to her nor hers-in me tú would I fy away, and be at rest."-Psalm lv. 6. This verse

pretend to recollect any thing about her, at so early a per also constitutes a part of the most beautiful anthem in our

of both our lives, almost, if not quite, in our nurseries language.

but it was a pleasant dream, which she must pardoa pe x

remembering. Is she pretty still? I have the most pester: ? Morven, a lofty mountain in Aberdeenshire. “Gormal

idea of her person, as a child ; but Time, I suppose, has of snow,” is an expression frequently to be found in Ossian. played the devil with us both.”) 3 This will no: appear extraordinary to those who have

6 “ Breasting the lofty surge."-SHAKSPEARE. The Der been accustomed to the mountains. It is by no means un

is a beautiful river, which rises near Mar Lodge, and fails common, on attaining the top of Ben-e-vis, Ben-y-bourd, &c.

into the sea at New Aberdeen. to perceive, between the summit and the valley, clouds pouring down rain, and occasionally accompanied by lightning,

6 Colbleen is a mountain near the verge of the Highlands. while the spectator literally looks down upon the storm, not far from the ruins of Dee Castle. perfectly secure from its effects.

? [In the spring of 1807, on recovering from a severe illos * (In Lord Byron's Diary for 1813, he says,_"I have been Lord Byron had projected a visit to Scotland. The plan was thinking lately a good deal of Mary Duff. How very odd that not put into execution ; but he thus adverts to it, in a letter I should have been so utterly, devotedly fond of that girl, at dated in August, and addressed to his fair correspondent !

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