Solitary Dog Sculptor I

     CHILDISH RECOLLECTIONS.

  "I cannot but remember such things were,
   And were most dear to me."

When slow Disease, with all her host of pains,
Chills the warm tide which flows along the veins;
When Health, affrighted, spreads her rosy wing,
And flies with every changing gale of spring;
Not to the aching frame alone confined,
Unyielding pangs assail the drooping mind:
What grisly forms, the spectre-train of woe,
Bid shuddering Nature shrink beneath the blow,
With Resignation wage relentless strife,
While Hope retires appall'd, and clings to life.
Yet less the pang when, through the tedious hour,
Remembrance sheds around her genial power,
Calls back the vanish'd days to rapture given,
When love was bliss, and beauty form'd our heaven:
Or, dear to youth, portrays each childish scene,
Those fairy bowers, where all in turn have been.
As when through clouds that pour the summer storm
The orb unveils his distant form,
Gilds with faint beams the crystal dews of rain,
And dimly twinkles o'er the watery plain;
Thus, while the future dark and cheerless gleams,
The sun of memory, glowing through my dreams,
Though sunk the radiance of his former blaze,
To scenes far distant points his paler rays:
Still rules my senses with unbounded sway,
The past confounding with the present day.

 Oft does my heart indulge the rising thought,
Which still recurs, unlook'd for and unsought:
My soul to Fancy's fond suggestion yields,
And roams romantic o'er her airy fields:
Scenes of my youth, developed, crowd to view,
To which I long have bade a last adieu!
Seats of delight, inspiring youthful themes;
Friends lost to me for aye, except in dreams;
Some who in marble prematurely sleep,
Whose forms I now remember but to weep;
Some who yet urge the same scholastic course
Of early science, future fame the source;
Who, still contending in the studious race,
In quick rotation fill the senior place.
These with a thousand visions now unite,
To dazzle, though they please, my aching sight.
Ida! blest spot, where Science holds her reign,
How joyous once I join'd thy youthful train!
Bright in idea gleams thy lofty spire,
Again I mingle with thy playful quire;
Our tricks of mischief, every childish game,
Unchanged by time or distance, seem the same;
Through winding paths along the glade, I trace
The social smile of every welcome face;
My wonted haunts, my scenes of joy and woe,
Each early boyish friend, or youthful foe,
Our feuds dissolved, but not my friendship past: --
I bless the former, and forgive the last.
Hours of my youth! when, nurtured in my breast,
To love a stranger, friendship made me blest; --
Friendship, the dear peculiar bond of youth,
When every artless bosom throbs with truth;
Untaught by worldly wisdom how to feign,
And check each impulse with prudential rein,
When all we feel, our honest souls disclose __
In love to friends, in open hate to foes;
No varnish'd tales the lips of youth repeat,
No dear-bought knowledge purchased by deceit.
Hypocrisy, the gift of lengthen'd years,
Matured by age, the garb of prudence wears.
When now the boy is ripen'd into man,
His careful sire chalks forth some wary plan;
Instructs his son from candour's path to shrink,
Smoothly to speak, and cautiously to think;
Still to assent, and never to deny --
A patron's praise can well reward the lie:
And who, when Fortune's warning voice is heard,
Would lose his opening prospects for a word?
Although against that word his heart rebel,
And truth indignant all his bosom swell.

 Away with themes like this! not mine the task
From flattering fiends to tear the hateful mask;
Let keener bards delight in satire's sting;
My fancy soars not on Detraction's wing:
Once, and but for once, she aim'd a deadly blow,
To hurl defiance on a secret foe;
But when that foe, from feeling or from shame,
The cause unknown, yet still to me the same,
Warn'd by some friendly hint, perchance, retired,
With this submission all her rage expired.
From dreaded pangs that feeble foe to save,
She hush'd her young resentment, and forgave;
Or, if my muse a pedant's portrait drew,
Pomposus' virtues are but known to few:
I never fear'd the young usurper's nod,
And he who wields must sometimes feel the rod.
If since on Granta's failings, known to all
Who share the converse of a college hall,
She sometimes trifled in a lighter strain,
'Tis past, and thus she will not sin again,
Soon must her early song for ever cease,
And all may rail when I shall rest in peace.

 Here first remember'd be the joyous band,
Who hail'd me chief, obedient to command:
Who join'd with me in every boyish sport --
Their first adviser, and their last resort;
Nor shrunk beneath the upstart pedant's frown,
Or all the sable glories of his gown;
Who, thus transplanted from his father's school --
Unfit to govern, ignorant of rule --
Succeeded him, whom all unite to praise,
The dear preceptor of my early days:
Probus, the pride of science, and the boast,*
To Ida now, alas! for ever lost.
With him, for years, we search'd the classic page,
And fear'd the master, though we loved the sage:
Retired at last, his small yet peaceful seat,
From learning's labour is the blest retreat.
Pomposus fills his magisterial chair;
Pomposus governs -- but, my muse, forbear:
Contempt, in silence, be the pedant's lot;
His name and precepts be alike forgot!
No more his mention shall my verse degrade --
To him my tribute is already paid.

 High, through those elms, with hoary branches crown'd,
Fair Ida's bower adorns the landscape round;
There Science, from her favour'd seat, surveys
The vale where rural Nature claims her praise;
To her awhile resigns her youthful train,
Who move in joy, and dance along the plain;
In scatter'd groups, each favour'd haunt pursue;
Repeat old pastimes, and discover new;
Flush'd with his rays, beneath the noontide sun,
In rival bands, between the wickets run,
Drive o'er the sward the ball with active force,
Or chase with nimble feet its rapid course.
But these with slower steps direct their way,
Where Brent's cool waves in limpid currents stray;
While yonder few search out some green retreat,
And arbours shade them from the summer heat:
Others again, a pert and lively crew,
Some rough and thoughtless stranger placed in view,
With frolic quaint their antic jests expose,
And tease the grumbling rustic as he goes:
Nor rest with this, but many a passing fray
Tradition treasures for a future day:
"'Twas here the gather'd swains for vengeance fought,
And here we earn'd the conquest dearly bought;
Here have we fled before superior might,
And here renew'd the wild tumultuous flight."
While thus our souls with early passions swell,
In lingering tones resounds the distant bell;
Th' allotted hour of daily sport is o'er,
And Learning beckons form her temple's door.
No splendid tablets grace her simple hall,
But ruder records fill the dusky wall;
There, deeply carved, behold! each tyro's name
Secures its owner's academic fame;
Here mingling view the names of sire and son,
The one long graved, the other just begun:
These shall survive alike when son and sire
Beneath one common stroke of fate expire:
Perhaps their last memorial these alone,
Denied in death a monumental stone,
Whilst to the gale in mournful cadence wave
The sighing weeds that hide their nameless grave.
And here my name, and many an early friend's,
Along the wall in lengthen'd line extends.
Though still our deeds amuse the youthful race,
Who tread our steps, and fill our former place,
Who young obey'd their lords in silent awe,
Whose nod commanded, and whose voice was law;
And now, in turn, possess the reins of power,
To rule the little tyrants of an hour; --
Though sometimes, with the tales of ancient day,
They pass the dreary winter's eve away --
"And thus our former rulers stemm'd the tide,
And thus they dealt the combat side by side;
Just in this place the mouldering walls they scaled,
Nor bolts nor bars against their strength avail'd;
Here Probus came, the rising fray to quell,
And here he falter'd forth his last farewell;
And here one night abroad they dared to roam,
While bold Pomposus bravely stay'd at home;" --
While thus they speak, the hour must soon arrive,
When names of these, like ours, alone survive:
Yet a few years, our general wreck will whelm
The faint remembrance of our fairy realm.

 Dear honest race! though now we meet no more,
One last long look on what we were before --
Our first kind greetings, and our last adieu --
Drew tears from eyes unused to weep with you.
Through splendid circles, fashion's gaudy world,
Where folly's glaring standard waves unfurl'd,
I plunged to drown in noise my fond regret,
And all I sought or hoped was to forget.
Vain wish! if chance some well-remember'd face,
Some old companion of my early race,
Advanced to claim his friend with honest joy,
My eyes, my heart, proclaim'd me still a boy;
The glittering scene, the fluttering groups around,
Were quite forgotten when my friend was found;
The smiles of beauty -- (for, alas! I've known
What 'tis to bend before Love's mighty throne) --
The smiles of beauty, though those smiles were dear,
Could hardly charm me, when that friend was near:
My thoughts bewilder'd in the fond surprise,
The wood of Ida danced before my eyes;
I saw the sprightly wanderers pour along,
I saw and join'd again the joyous throng;
Panting, again I traced her lofty grove,
And friendship's feelings triumph'd over love.

 Yet, why should I alone, with such delight,
Retrace the circuit of my former flight?
Is there no cause beyond the common claim
Endear'd to all in childhood's very name?
Ah! sure some stronger impulse vibrates here,
Which whispers friendship will be doubly dear,
To one who thus for kindred hearts must roam,
And seek abroad for love denied at home.
Those hearts, dear Ida, have I found in thee --
A home, a world, a paradise to me.
Stern Death forbade my orphan youth to share
The tender guidance of a father's care.
Can rank, or e'en a guardian's name, supply
The love which glistens in a father's eye?
For this can wealth or title's sound atone,
Made, by a parent's early loss, my own?
What brother springs a brother's love to seek?
What sister's gentle kiss has prest my cheek?
For me how dull the vacant moments rise,
To no fond bosom link'd by kindred ties!
Oft in the progress of some fleeting dream
Fraternal smiles collected round me seem;
While still the visions to my heart are prest,
The voice of love will murmur in my rest:
I hear -- I wake -- and in the sound rejoice;
I hear again -- but ah! no brother's voice.
A hermit, 'midst of crowds, I fain must stray
Alone, though thousand pilgrims fill the way;
While these a thousand kindred wreaths entwine,
I cannot call a single blossom mine:
What then remains? in solitude to groan,
To mix in friendship, or to sigh alone.
Thus must I cling to some endearing hand,
And none more dear than Ida's social band.

 Alonzo! best and dearest of my friends,
Thy name ennobles him who thus commends:
From this fond tribute thou canst gain no praise;
The praise is his who now that tribute pays.
Oh! in the promise of thy early youth,
If hope anticipate the words of truth,
Some loftier bard shall sing thy glorious name,
To build his own upon thy deathless fame.
Friend of my heart, and foremost of the list
Of those with whom I lived supremely blest,
Oft have we drain'd the font of ancient lore;
Though drinking deeply, thirsting still the more,
Yet when confinement's lingering hour was done,
Our sports, our studies and our souls were one.
Together we impell'd the flying ball;
Together waited in our tutor's hall:
Together join'd in cricket's manly toil,
Or shared the produce of the river's spoil;
Or, plunging from the green declining shore,
Our pliant limbs the buoyant billows bore;
In every element, unchanged, the same,
All, all that brothers should be, but the name.

 Nor yet are you forgot, my jocund boy;
Davus, the harbinger of childish joy;
For ever foremost in the ranks of fun,
The laughing herald of the harmless pun;
Yet with a breast of such materials made --
Anxious to please, of pleasing half afraid;
Candid and liberal, with a heart of steel
In danger's path, though not untaught to feel.
Still I remember, in the factious strife,
The rustic's musket aim'd against my life:
High poised in air the massy weapon hung,
A cry of horror burst from every tongue;
Whilst I, in combat with another foe,
Fought on, unconscious of th' impending blow;
Your arm, brave boy, arrested his career --
Forward you sprung, insensible to fear;
Disarm'd and baffled by your conquering hand,
The grovelling savage roll'd upon the sand:
An act like this, can simple thanks repay,
Of all the labours of a grateful lay?
Oh no! whene'er my breast forgets the deed,
That instant, Davus, it deserves to bleed.

 Lycus! on me thy claims are justly great:
Thy milder virtues could my muse relate,
To thee alone, unrivall'd, would belong
The feeble efforts of my lengthen'd song.
Well canst thou boast, to lead in senates fit,
A Spartan firmness with Athenian wit:
Though yet in embryo those perfections shine,
Lycus! thy father's fame will soon be thine.
Where learning nurtures the superior mind,
What may we hope from genius thus refined!
When time at length matures thy growing years,
How wilt thou tower above thy fellow peers!
Prudence and sense, a spirit bold and free,
With honour's soul, united beam in thee.

 Shall fair Euryalus pass by unsung?
From ancient lineage, not unworthy sprung:
What though one sad dissension bade us part,
That name is yet embalm'd within my heart;
Yet at the mention does that heart rebound,
And palpitate, responsive to the sound.
Envy dissolved our ties, and not our will:
We once were friends -- I'll think we are so still.
A form unmatch'd in nature's partial mould,
A heart untainted, we in thee behold:
Yet not the senate's thunder thou shalt wield,
Nor seek for glory in the tented field;
To minds of ruder texture these be given --
Thy soul shall nearer soar its native heaven.
Haply, in polish'd courts might be thy seat,
But that thy tongue could never forge deceit:
The courtier's supple bow and sneering smile,
The flow of compliment, the slippery wile,
Would make that breast with indignation burn,
And all the glittering snares to tempt thee spurn.
Domestic happiness will stamp thy fate;
Sacred to love, unclouded e'er by hate;
The world admire thee, and thy friends adore; --
Ambition's slave alone would toil for more.

 Now last, but nearest, of the social band,
See honest, open, generous Cleon stand;
With scarce one speck to cloud the pleasing scene,
No voice degrades that purest soul serene.
On the same day our studious race begun,
On the same day our studious race was run;
Thus side by side we pass'd our first career,
Thus side by side we strove for many a year;
At last concluded our scholastic life,
We neither conquer'd in the classic strife:
As speakers each supports an equal name,**
And crowds allow to both a partial fame:
To soothe a youthful rival's early pride,
Though Cleon's candour would the palm divide,
Yet candour's self compels me now to own,
Justice awards it to my friend alone.

 Oh! friends regretted, scenes for ever dear,
Remembrance hails you with her warmest tear!
Drooping, she bends o'er pensive Fancy's urn,
To trace the hours which never can return;
Yet with the retrospection loves to dwell,
And soothe the sorrows of her last farewell!
Yet greets the triumph of my boyish mind,
As infant laurels round my head were twined,
When Probus' praise repaid my lyric song,
Or placed me higher in the studious throng;
Or when my first harangue received applause,
His sage instruction the primeval cause,
What gratitude to him my soul posesst,
While hope of dawning honours fill'd my breast!
For all my humble fame, to him alone
The praise is due, who made that fame my own.
Oh! could I soar above these feeble lays,
These young effusions of my early days,
To him my muse her noblest strain would give:
The song might perish, but the theme might live.
Yet why for him the needless verse essay?
His honour'd name requires no vain display:
By every son of grateful Ida blest,
It finds an echo in each youthful breast;
A fame beyond the glories of the proud,
Or all the plaudits of the venal crowd.

 Ida! not yet exhausted is the theme,
Nor closed the progress of my youthful dream.
How many a friend deserves the grateful strain!
What scenes of childhood still unsung remain!
Yet let me hush this echo of the past,
This parting song, the dearest and the last;
And brood in secret o'er those hours of joy,
To me a silent and a sweet employ,
While, future hope and fear alike unknown,
I think with pleasure on the past alone;
Yes, to the past alone my heart confine,
And chase the phantom of what once was mine.

 Ida! still o'er thy hills in joy preside,
And proudly steer through time's eventful tide;
Still may thy blooming sons thy name revere,
Smile in thy blower, but quit thee with a tear; --
That tear, perhaps, the fondest which will flow,
O'er their last scene of happiness below.
Tell me, ye hoary few, who glide along,
The feeble veterans of some former throng,
Whose friends, like autumn leaves by tempests whirl'd,
Are swept for ever from this busy world;
Revolve the fleeting moments of your youth,
While care as yet withheld her venom'd tooth;
Say if remembrance days like this endears
Beyond the rapture of succeeding years?
Say, can ambition's fever'd dream bestow
So sweet a balm to soothe your hours of woe?
Can treasures, hoarded for some thankless son,
Can royal smiles, or wreaths by slaughter won,
Can stars or ermine, man's maturer toys,
(For glittering baubles are not left to boys,)
Recall one scene so much beloved to view,
As those where Youth her garland twined for you?
Ah, no! amidst the gloomy calm of age
You turn with faltering hand life's varied page;
Peruse the record of your days on earth,
Unsullied only where it marks your birth;
Still lingering pause above each chequer'd leaf,
And blot with tears the sable lines of grief;
Where Passion o'er the theme her mantle threw,
Or weeping Virtue sigh'd a faint adieu;
But bless the scroll which fairer words adorn,
Traced by the rosy finger of the morn;
When Friendship bow'd before the shrine of truth,
And Love, without his pinion, smiled on youth.***


* Dr Drury.  This most able and excellent man retired from his situation in March 1805, after having resided thirty-five years at Harrow; the last twenty as head-master; an office he held with equal honour to himself and advantage to the very extensive school over which he presided.  Panegyric would here be superfluous: it would be useless to enumerate qualifications which were never doubted.  A considerable contest took place between three rival candidates for his vacant chair: of this I can only say,
   Si mea cum vestric valuissent vota, Pelasgi!
   Non foret ambiguus tanti certaminis hæres.

** This alludes to the public speeches delivered at the school where the author was educated.

*** "L'Amitié est l'Amour sans ailes," is a French proverb.

   ANSWER TO A BEAUTIFUL POEM,

    "Entitled "The Common Lot."*

Montgomery! true, the common lot
 Of mortals lies in Lethe's wave;
Yet some shall never be forgot --
 Some shall exist beyond the grave.

"Unknown the region of his birth,"
 The hero rolls the tide of war;**
Yet not unknown his martial worth,
 Which glares a meteor from afar.

His joy or grief, his weal or woe,
 Perchance may 'scape the page of fame;
Yet nations now unborn will know
 The record of his deathless name.

The patriot's and the poet's frame
 Must share the common tomb of all:
Their glory will not sleep the same;
 /That/ will arise, though empires fall.

The lustre of a beauty's eye
 Assumes the ghastly stare of death;
The fair, the brave, the good must die,
 And sink the yawning grave beneath.

Once more the speaking eye revives,
 Still beaming through the lover's strain:
For Petrarch's Laura still survives:
 She died, but ne'er will die again.

The rolling seasons pass away,
 And Time, untiring, waves his wing;
Whilst honour's laurels ne'er decay,
 But bloom in fresh, unfading spring.

All, all must sleep in grim repose,
 Collected in the silent tomb;
The old and young, with friends and foes,
 Festering alike in shrouds, consume.

The mouldering marble lasts its day,
 Yet falls at length a useless fane;
To ruin's ruthless fangs a prey,
 The wrecks of pillar'd pride remain.

What, though the sculpture be destroy'd,
 From dark oblivion meant to guard;
A bright renown shall be enjoy'd,
 By those whose virtues claim reward.

Then do not say the common lot
 Of all lies deep in Lethe's wave;
Some few who ne'er will be forgot
 Shall burst the bondage of the grave.

                                  1806.


* Written by James Montgomery, author of "The Wanderer in Switzerland," &c.

** No particular hero is here alluded to.  The exploits of Bayard, Nemours, Edward the Black Prince, and in more modern times the fame of Marlborough, Frederick the Great, Count Saxe, Charles of Sweden, &c., are familiar to every historical reader, but the exact places of their birth are known to a very small proportion of their admirers.




            LINES

Addressed to the Rev. J. T. Becher, on his
advising the author to mix more with society.

Dear Becher, you tell me to mix with mankind: --
 I cannot deny such a precept is wise;
But retirement accords with the tone of my mind:
 I will not descend to a world I despise.

Did the senate or camp my exertions require,
 Ambition might prompt me, at once, to go forth,
When infancy's years of probation expire,
 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,
 No torrent can quench it, no bounds can repress.

Oh! thus, the desire in my bosom for fame
 Bids me live but to hope for posterity's praise.
Could I soar with the phœnix 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!
Their lives did not end when they yielded their breath!
 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 of 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?

                                       1806.









    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 midst 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 gray stone marks his narrow house.  He looks down from the 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 sight of his soul: his thoughts were given to friendship, -- to dark-haired Orla, destroyer of heroes!  Equal were their swords in battle; but fierce was the pride of Orla: -- gentle alone to Calmar.  Together they dwelt in the cave of 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 veiled 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.  To watch was the post of Orla.  Calmar stood by his side.  Their spears were in their hands.  Fingal called his chiefs: they stood around.  The king was in the midst.  Gray were his locks, but strong was the arm of the king.  Age withered not his powers.  "Sons of Morven," said the hero, "to-morrow we meet the foe.  But where is Cuthullin, the shield of Erin?  He rests in the halls of Tura; he knows not of our coming.  Who will speed through Lochlin to the hero, and call the chief to arms?  The path is by the swords of foes; but many are my heroes.  They are thunderbolts of war.  Speak, ye chiefs!  Who will arise?"

"Son of Trenmor! mine be the deed," said dark-haired Orla, "and mine alone.  What is death to me?  I love the sleep of the mighty, but little is the danger.  The sons of Lochlin dream.  I will seek car-borne Cuthulllin.  If I fall, raise the song of bards; and lay me by the stream of Lubar." -- "And shalt thou fall alone?" said fair-haired Calmar.  "Wilt thou leave thy friend afar?  Chief of Oithona! not feeble is my arm in fight.  Could I see thee die, and not lift the spear?  No, Orla! ours has been the chase of the roebuck, and the feast of shells; ours be the path of danger: ours has been the cave of Oithona; ours be the narrow dwelling on the banks of Lubar."  "Calmar," said the chief of Oithona, "why should thy yellow locks be darkened in the dust of Erin?  Let me fall alone. My father dwells in his hall of air: he will rejoice in his boy; but the blue-eyed Mora spreads the feast for her son in Morven.  She listens to the steps of the hunter on the heath, and thinks it is the tread of Calmar.  Let him not say, 'Calmar has fallen by the steel of Lochlin: he died with gloomy Orla, the chief of the dark brow.'  Why should tears dim the azure eye of Mora?  Why should her voice curse Orla, the destroyer of Calmar?  Live, 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."

They quit the circle of the chiefs.  Their steps are to the host of Lochlin.  The dying blaze of oak dim twinkles through the night.  The northern star points the path to Tura.  Swaran, the king, rests on his lonely hill.  Here the troops are mixed: they frown in sleep; their shields beneath their heads.  Their swords gleam at distance in heaps.  The fires are faint; their embers fail in smoke.  All is hush'd; but the gale sighs on the rocks above.  Lightly wheel the heroes through the slumbering band.  Half the journey is past, when Mathon, resting on his shield, meets the eye of Orla.  It rolls in flame, and glistens through the shade.  His spear is raised on high.  "Why dost thou bend thy brow, chief of Oithona?" said fair-haired Calmar: "we are in the midst of foes.  Is this a time for delay?"  "It is a time for vengeance," said Orla of the gloomy brow.  "Mathon of Lochlin sleeps: seest thou his spear?  Its point is dim with the gore of my father.  The blood of Mathon shall reek on mine: but shall I slay him sleeping, son of Mora?  No! he shall feel his wound: my fame shall not soar on the blood of slumber.  Rise, Mathon, rise!  The son of Conna calls, thy life is his; rise to combat."  Mathon starts from sleep; but did he rise alone?  No: the gathering chiefs bound on the plain.  "Fly! Calmar, fly!" said dark-haired Orla.  Mathon is mine: I shall 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 wound, and foams on the spear of Calmar.  As roll the waves of the Ocean on 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 in 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.

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 Calamar: 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: 'tis 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 should 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 wind 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 it 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."**

* It may be necessary to observe, that the story, though considerably varied in the catastrophe, is taken from "Nisus and Euryalus," of which episode a translation is already given in the present volume.

** I fear Laing's late edition has completely overthrown every hope that Macpherson's Ossian might prove the translation of a series of poems complete in themselves; but, 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, which evinces an attachment to their favorite author.