The mouldering marble lasts its day,
Yet falls at length an 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.

TO THE REV. J. T. BECHER.*

1806.

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 prosperity'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 wo 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

ceive.

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?

↑ Only found in the private volume.

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 gray 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 sigh 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 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. 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 darkhaired 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 de-car-borne Cuthullin. 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

• First published in Hours of Idleness.

↑ 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.

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.

banks of Lubar." "Calmar," said the chief of ful is the clang of death! many are the widows of Oithona; "why should thy yellow locks be dark-Lochlin. Morven prevails in his strength. ened in the dust of Erin? Let me fall alone. My Morn glimmers on the hills; no living foe is seen; father dwells in his hall of air: he will rejoice in his but the sleepers are many; grim they lie on Erin. boy; but the blue-eyed Mora spreads the feast for The breeze of ocean lifts their locks; yet they do not her son in Morven. She listens to the steps of the awake. The hawks scream above their prey. hunter on the heath, and thinks it is the tread of Whose yellow locks wave o'er the breast of a Calmar. Let him not say, 'Calmar has fallen by chief? Bright as the gold of the stranger, they the steel of Lochlin: he died with gloomy Orla, the mingle with the dark hair of his friend. "'Tis Calchief of the dark brow.' Why should tears dim the mar: he lies on the bosom of Orla. Theirs is one azure eye of Mora? Why should her voice curse stream of blood. Fierce is the look of the gloomy Orla, the destroyer of Calmar? Live, Calmar! Orla. He breathes not; but his eye is still a flame. Live to raise my stone of moss; live to revenge me It glares in death unclosed. His hand is grasped in in the blood of Lochlin. Join the song of bards Calmar's; but Calmar lives! he lives, though low. above my grave. Sweet will be the song of death to "Rise," said the king, "rise, son of Mora: 'tis Orla from the voice of Calmar. My ghost shall mine to heal the wounds of heroes. Calmar may yet smile on the notes of praise." "Orla," said the son bound on the hills of Morven." of Mora, "could I raise the song of death to my "Never more shall Calmar chase the deer of Morfriend? Could I give his fame to the winds? No, ven with Orla," said the hero. "What were the my heart would speak in sighs. Faint and broken chase to me alone? Who would share the spoils of are the sounds of sorrow. Orla! our souls shall battle with Calmar? Orla is at rest! Rough was hear the song together. One cloud shall be ours on thy soul, Orla! yet soft to me as the dew of morn. high. The bards will mingle the names of Orla and It glared on others in lightning; to me a silver Calmar." beam of night. Bear my sword to blue-eyed Mora; They quit the circle of the chiefs. Their steps let it hang in my empty hall. It is not pure from are to the host of Lochlin. The dying blaze of oak blood: but it could not save Orla. Lay me with my dim twinkles through the night. The northern star friend. Raise the song when I am dark !" 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 hushed; but the gale sighs on the rocks above. Lightly wheel "What form rises on the roar of clouds? Whose the heroes through the slumbering band. Half the dark ghost gleams on the red streams of tempests? journey is past, when Mathon, resting on his shield, His voice rolls on the thunder. 'Tis Orla, the brown meets the eye of Orla. It rolls in flame, and glist- chief of Oithona. He was unmatched in war. ens through the shade. His spear is raised on Peace to thy soul, Orla! thy fame will not perish. high. 66 "Why dost thou bend thy brow, chief of Nor thine, Calmar! Lovely wast thou, son of blueOithona?" said fair-haired Calmar. "We are in the eyed Mora; but not harmless was thy sword. It midst of foes. Is this a time for delay?" "It is a hangs in thy cave. The ghosts of Lochlin shriek time for vengeance," said Orla of the gloomy brow. around its steel. Hear thy praise, Calmar! It "Mathon of Lochlin sleeps: seest thou his spear? dwells on the voice of the mighty. Thy name Its point is dim with the gore of my father. The shakes on the echoes of Morven. Then raise thy blood of Mathon shall reek on mine; but shall I fair locks, son of Mora. Spread them on the arch slay him sleeping, son of Mora? No! he shall feel his of the rainbow; and smile through the tears of the wound: my fame shall not soar on the blood of storm."* 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? 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 head of Orla: but a spear pierced his eye. His brain gushes through 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 Loch

No: the

TO E. N. L. ESQ.†

"Nil ego contulerim jucundo sanus amico."-Hor. E.
DEAR L, 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 amid 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 tempest cease.

I fear Laing's late edition has completely overthrows every hope tâm

lin. The din of arms came to the ear of Fingal. He Macpherson's Ossian might prove the translation of a series of poems com plete in themselves; but, while the imposture is discovered, the merit of the strikes his shield; his sons throng around; the peo-work remains undisputed, though not without faults-particularly, in some ple pour along the heath. Ryno bounds in joy. Ossian stalks in his arms. Oscar shakes his spear. The eagle wing of Fillan floats on the wind. Dread

parts, tnrgid and bombastic diction. The present humble imitation will be
which evinces an attachment to their favorite author.
pardoned by the admirers of the original as an attempt, however inferior,

↑ First published in Hours of Idleness.