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will speed through Lochlin to the hero, and call the from his arm: he shudders in his 'blood. He rolls chief to arms? The path is by the swords of foes; | by the side of the blazing oak. Strumon sees him but many are my heroes. They are thunderbolts of fall: his wrath rises : his weapon glitters on the head war. Speak, ye chiefs! Who will arise ?"
of Orla: but a spear pierced his eye. His brain gushes “Son of Trenmor! mine be the deed,” said dark- | through the wound, and foams on the spear of Calmar. haired Orla, “and mine alone. What is death to | As roll the waves of the ocean on two mighty barks me? I love the sleep of the mighty, but little is the of the north, so pour the men of Lochlin on the chiefs. danger. The sons of Lochlin dream. I will seek | As, breaking the surge in foam, proudly steer the car-borne Cuthullin. If I fall, raise the song of bards, / barks of the north, so rise the chiefs of Morven on and lay me by the stream of Lubar.” “And shalt the scattered crests of Lochlin. The din of arms came thou fall alone ?" said fair-haired Calmar. “Wilt to the ear of Fingal. He strikes his shield; his sons thou leave thy friend asar? Chief of Oithona! not throng around; the people pour along the heath. Ryno feeble is my arm in fight. Could I see thee die, and bounds in joy. Ossian stalks in his arms. Oscar not lift the spear? No Orla! ours has been the chase shakes the spear. The eagle wing of Fillan floats of the roebuck, and the feast of shells; ours be the on the wind. Dreadful is the clang of death! many path of danger : ours has been the cave of Oithona; are the widows of Lochlin! Morven prevails in its ours be the narrow dwelling on the banks of Lubar." strength. “Calmar," said the chief of Oithona, “why should | Morn glimmers on the hills : no living foe is seen! thy yellow locks be darkened in the dust of Erin? | but the sleepers are many; grim they lie on Erin. Let me fall alone. My father dwells in his hall of The breeze of ocean lifts their locks; yet they do not air : he will rejoice in his boy; but the blue-eyed awake. The hawks scream above their prey. Mora spreads the feast for her son in Morven. She | Whose yellow locks wave o'er the breast of a chief? listens to the steps of the hunter on the heath, and Bright as the gold of the stranger, they mingle with thinks it is the tread of Calmar. Let him not say, the dark hair of his friend. 'Tis Calmar: he lies on "Calmar has fallen by the steel of Lochlin: he died the bosom of Orla. Theirs is one stream of blood. with gloomy Orla, the chief of the dark brow. Why Fierce is the look of the gloomy Orla. He breatbes should tears dim the azure eye of Mora? Why should not; but his eye is still a fame. It glares in death her voice curse Orla, the destroyer of Calınar? Live, unclosed. His hand is grasped in Calmar's; but Calmar! Live to raise my stone of moss; live to Calmar lives! he lives, though low. "Rise,” said revenge me in the blood of Lochlin. Join the song the king, “rise, son of Mora: 'tis mine to heal the of bards above my grave. Sweet will be the song of wounds of heroes. Calmar may yet bound on the hills death to Orla, from the voice of Calmar. My ghost of Morveu." shall smile on the notes of praise.” “Orla,” said the “Never more shall Calmar chase the deer of Morven son of Mora, “could I raise the song of death to my with Orla," said the hero. “What were the chase friend? Could I give his fam to the winds? No, to me alone? Who would share the spoils of battle my heart would speak in sighs : faint and broken are with Calmar? Orla is at rest! Rough was thy soul, the sounds of sorrow. Orla! our souls shall hear Orla! yet soft to me as the dew of morn. It glared the song together. One cloud shall be ours on high: | on others in lightning: to me a silver beam of night. the bards will mingle the names of Orla and Calmar." Bear my sword to blue-eyed Mora ; let it hang in my
They quit the circle of the chiefs. Their steps are empty hall. It is not pure from blood: but it could to the host of Lochlin. The dying blaze of the oak | not save Orla. Lay me with my friend. Raise the dim twinkles through the night. The northern star song when I am dark !" points the path to Tura. Swaran, the king, rests on They are laid by the stream of Lubar. Four grey his lonely hill. Here the troops are mixed: they stones mark the dwelling of Orla and Calmar. When frown in sleep; their shields beneath their heads. Swaran was bound, our sails rose on the blue waves. Their swords gleam at distance in lieaps. The fires The winds gave our barks to Morven :- the bards are faint; their embers fail in smoke. All is hushed; raised the song. but the gale sighs on the rocks above. Lightly wheel Wbat 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 Alame, and glistens chief of Oithona. He was unmatched in war. Peace through the shade. 'His spear is raised on high. “Why to thy soul, Orla! thy fame will not perish. Nor thine, dost thou bend thy brow, chief of Oithona ?" said Calmar! Lovely wast thou, son of blue-eyed Mora; fair-haired Calmar: “ we are in the midst of foes. Is but not harmless was thy sword. It hangs in thy this a time for delay?" "It is a time for vengeance,” cave. The ghosts of Lochlin shriek around its steel. said Orla of the gloomy brow. “Mathon of Lochlin Hear thy praise, Calmar! It dwells on the voice of sleeps : seest thou his spear? Its point is dim with the mighty. Thy name shakes on the echoes of the gore of my father. The blood of Mathon shall | Morven. Then raise thy fair locks, son of Mora. reek on mine; but shall I slay him sleeping, son of Spread them on the arch of the rainbow; and smile Mora? No! he shall feel his wound: my fame shall through the tears of the storm.” (1) not soar on the blood of slumber. Rise, Mathon, rise! The son of Connal calls; thy 'life is his: rise (1) I fear Laing's late edition has completely overthrown to combat." Mathon starts from sleep: but did be every hope that Macpherson's Ossian might prove the trans.
lation of a series of poems complete in themselves; but, rise alone? No: the gathering chiefs bound on the while the imposture is discovered, the merit of the work plain. "Fly! Calmar, fly!" said dark-haired Orla. / remains undisputed, though not without faults- particu. " Mathon is mine. I sball die in joy: but Lochlin larly, in some parts, turgid and bombastic diction. The crowds around. Fly through the shade of night.” Orla
present humble imitation will be pardoned by the admirers
of the original as an attempt, however inferior, which turns. The helm of Mathon is cleft; his shield falls evinces an attachment to their favourite author.”
L'AMITIÉ EST L'AMOUR SANS AILES. (1) My Lycas !(3) wherefore dost thou weep? [Written December, 1806.]
Thy falling tears restrain;
Affection for a time may sleep,
But, oh, 't will wake again.(4)
Think, think, my friend, when next we meet, Affection is not dead.
Our long-wish'd interview, how sweet! In tracing back the years of youth,
From this my hope of rapture springs; One firm record, one lasting truth
While youthful hearts thus fondly swell, Celestial consolation brings;
Absence, my friend, can only tell, Bear it, ye breezes, to the seat
"Friendship is Love without his wings!" Where first my heart responsive beat,
In one, and one alone, deceived, "Friendship is Love without his wings !"
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; My soul, enraptured with the past,
And till those vital chords shall break,
For none but these my breast shall wake Friendship! that thought is all thine own,
Friendship, the power deprived of wings! Worth worlds of bliss, that thought alone
Ye few! my soul, my life is yours,
My memory and my hope;
Your worth a lasting love ensures,
Unsetter'd in its scope;
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!" My silent tears too plainly prove
Fictions and dreams inspire the bard "Friendship is Love without his wings!"
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; No trace of thee remains behind,
Simple and young, I dare not feign;
Mine be the rude yet heartfeld strain,
“Friendship is Love without his wings ! Thou shalt not haunt my coming hour; Unless, indeed, without thy wings.
THE PRAYER OF NATURE.(5) Seat of my youth!(2) thy distant spiro
[Written December 29, 1806. Recalls each scene of joy;
Father of Light! great God of Heaven!
Hear'st thou the accents of despair?
Can guilt like man's be e'er forgiven?
Can vice atone for crimes by prayer?
Father of Light, on thee I call!
Thou see'st my soul is dark within ; Each dear associate seems to say
Thou, who canst mark the sparrow's fall, • Friendship is Love without his wings!"
Avert from me the death of sin. (1) See ante, p. 36, c. I, note. We insert this poem here thing given in that volume. “Written when the author was on account of the date of its composition. It was not how not nineteen years of age, this remarkable poem shows," ever included in the publication of 1807.-L. E.
says Moore, “how, early the struggle between natural piety Harrow.
(3) The Earl of Clare.-L. E. and doubt began in his mind." In reading the celebrated (4) The yoang poet had recently received from Lord
critique of the Edinburgh Review on the Hours of Idleness, Clare an epistle containing this passage:-“ I think, by
the fact that the volume did not include this “Prayer of
Nature” ought to be kept in mind.-L. E. your last letter, that you are very much piqued with most of your friends; and, if I am not much mistaken, a little so This little poem, on the whole, affords a tolerably correct with me. In one part you say, there is little or no doubt notion of Lord Byron's religious creed, though the contra1 few years, or months, will render us as politely indif. dictory nature of his wriung
dictory nature of his writings renders it impossible to set Terent to each other, as if we had never passed a portion of that question positively at rest. He probably had no pre. our time together:' indeed, Byron, you wrong me: and I cise opinion on the subject of religion, and considered it, as bave no doubt-at least I hope--you wrong yourself."-L. E. he himself says in Don Juan, It is difficult to conjecture for what reason, but
"--a pleasant voyage, perhaps to float these stanzas were not included in the publication of 1807;
Like Pyrrho, on a sea of speculation." though few will hesitate to place them higher than any | To a memorandum of the writers on Divinity, whose works Mr. Southey's juvenile pieces, beginning, In a letter to Mr. Dallas, quoted by that gentleman in his
No shrine I seek, to sects unknown;
Oh point to me the path of truth! Thy dread omnipotence I own;
Spare, yet amend, the faults of youth.
Let Superstition hail the pile,
With tales of mystic rights beguile.
To Gothic domes of mouldering stone ? Thy temple is the face of day;
Earth, ocean, heaven thy boundless throne.(1) | 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,
Or doctrines less severe inspire ?
Prepare a fancied bliss or woe?
Their great Creator's purpose know?
Whose years float on in daily crimeShall they by faith for guilt atone,
And live beyond the bounds of Time? Father! no prophet's laws I seek,
Thy laws in Nature's works appear;-
Yet will I pray, for thou wilt hear!
Through trackless realms of æther's space;
Whose hand from pole to pole I trace:
Thou, who in wisdorn placed me here,
Who, when thou wilt, can take me hence,
Extend to me thy wide defence.
Whatever weal or woe betide,
In thy protection I confide,
My soul shall float on airy wing,
Inspire her feeble voice to sing !
With clay the grave's eternal bed,
Though doom'd no more to quit the dead.
Grateful for all thy mercies past,
This erring life may fly at last.
TO EDWARD NOEL LONG, ESQ.(2)
While all around in slumber lie,
Come rolling fresh on Fancy's eye:
he had perused, he is stated by Moore to have subjoined the world, and what not to believe. There are as many plansible following remark: "I abbor books of religion, though I reve reasons for inducing me to die a bigot, as there have been rence and love my God, without the blasphemous notions ot to make me hitherto live a free-thinker.” Millington.-P.E. sectaries, or belief in their absurd and damnable heresies,
(1) The poet appears to have had in his mind one of mysteries, and thirty-nine articles."
“Go, thou, unto the honse of prayer, Correspondence, Byron thus vaguely expresses himself: “I
I to the woodlands will repair."-L.E. hold virtue in general, or the virtues severally, to be only
(2) This young gentleman, who was with Lord Byron in the disposition ; each a feeling, not a principle. I believe
both at Harrow and Cambridge, afterwards entered the truth the prime attribute of the Deity, and death an eternal
Guards, and served with distinction in the expedition to sleep, at least of the body."
Copenhagen. He was drowned early in 1809, when on his "I remember saying to him," observes Sir Walter Scott, | way to join the army in the Peninsula; the transport in "that I really thought that, if he lived a few years, he would which he sailed being run foul of in the night by another alter bis sentiments. He answered, rather sharply, I sup of the convoy. “Long's father,” says Lord Byron, “wrote pose you are one of those who prophesy I will turn methodist?' to me to write his son's epitaph. I promised - but I had I replied, “No I don't expect your conversion to be of such not the heart to complete it. He was such a good. amiable an ordinary kind. I would rather look to see you retreat | being as rarely remains long, in this world; with talent upon the Catholic faith, and distinguish yourself by the and accomplishments, too, to make him the more regretted.” austerity of your penances. The species of religion to which Diary, 1821.-L. E. you must, or may, one day attach yourself, must exercise
In the diary from which the above is an extract, Lord a strong power on the imagination.' He smiled gravely, and
Byron gives the following strange instance of the moody me. seemed to allow I might be right."
lancholy that occasionally preyed on the mind of his old "I am no bigot to infidelity," says Lord Byron, in a letter schoolfellow and College companion: “Though a cheerful to Mr. Gifford, “and did not expect that, because I doubted companion,” says his Lordship," he had strange melancholy the immortality of man, I should be charged with denying thoughts sometimes. I remember once that we were going the existence of a God. It was the comparative insignificance to his uncle's, I think I went to accompany him to the door of ourselves and our world, when placed in comparison with merely, in some Upper or Lower Grosvenor or Brook street, the mighty whole, of which it is an atom, that first led me I forget which, but it was in a street leading out of some to imagine that our pretensions to eternity might be over square; he told me that the night before he had taken up a rated."
pistol, not knowing or examining whether it was loaded or “To say the truth,” Byron, on one occasion, confessed, no, and had snapped it at his head, leaving it to chance “I find it equally difficult to know what to believe in this whether it might or might not be charged.".-P. E.
To check my bosom's fondest thought,
And interrupt the golden dream,
And still indulge my wonted theme.
In Granta's vale, the pedant's lore; Nor through the groves of Ida chase
Our raptured visions as before ; Though Youth has flwn on rosy pinion, And Manhood claims bis stern dominionAge will not every hope destroy, But yield some hours of sober joy.
The soul's meridian don't become her,
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.
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 upmoved misfortune's groan, And bids me feel for self alone; Oh! may my bosom never learn
To soothe its wonted heedless flow;
Bat ne'er forget another's woe.
But now, dear, Long, 't is midnight's noon,
Has thrice perform'd her stated round,
And chased away the gloom profound, I trust that we, my gentle friend, Shall see her rolling orbit wend Above the dear-loved peaceful seat Which once contain'd our youth's retreat;(1) 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 Lupa's waning horn Scarce glimmers through the mist of morn.
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 past,
And caves their sullen roar enclose, We heed no more the wintry blast,
When lull'by Zephyr to repose. Fall 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;
Can now no more my love recall:
For Cora's eye will shine on all.
TO A LADY.(2)
As once this pledge appear'd a token,
For then my peace had not been broken. (3) To thee these early faults I owe,
To thee, the wise and old reproving: They know my sins, but do not know
'T was thine to break the bonds of loving. For once my soul, like thine, was pure,
And all its rising fires could smother ; 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 !
"T'were vain and fruitless to regret thee;
e two friends were both passionately attached to Parrow; and sometimes made excursions thither together, to revive their schoolboy recollections.-L. E. (2) Mrs. Musters.-L. E. 3) “Our union would bave healed feuds in which blood
had been shed by our fathers - it would have joined lands broad and rich - it would have joined at least one heart, and two persons not ill matched in years she is two years my elder), and -- and -- and - what has been the result?" Diary, 1821.-L. E.
You knew,-but away with the vain retrospection!
The bond of affection no longer endures; Too late you may droop o'er the fond recollection,
And sigh for the friend who was formerly yours. For the present, we part,- I will hope not for ever;
For time and regret will restore you at last : To forget our dissension we both should endeavour;
I ask no atonement, but days like the past,
Nor Hope nor Memory yield their aid,
But Pride may teach me to forget thee. Yet all this giddy waste of years,
This tiresome round of palling pleasures; These varied loves, these matron's fears,
These thoughtless strains to passion's measures, If thou wert mine, had all beeu hush'd:
This cheek, now pale from early riot, With passion's hectic ne'er had flush'd,
But bloom'd in calm domestic quiet. Yes, once the rural scene was sweet,
For nature seem'd to smile before thee;(1) And once my breast abhorr'd deceit,
For then it beat but to adore thee. But now I seek for other joys;
To think would drive my soul to maduess; In thoughtless throngs and empty noise,
I conquer half my bosom's sadness. Yet, even in these a thonght will steal,
In spite of every vain endeavour,And fiends might pity what I feel,
To know that thou art lost for ever.
TO GEORGE, EARL DELAWARR. On! yes, I will own we were dear to each other;
The friendships of childhood, though fleeting, are true; The love which you felt was the love of a brother,
Nor less the affection I cherish'd for you. Bat Friendship can vary her gentle dominion;
The attachment of years in a moment expires : Like Love, too, she moves on a swift-waving pinion,
But glows not, like Love, with unquenchable fires. Full oft have we wander'd through Ida together,
And blest were the scenes of our youth, I allow : In the spring of our life, how serene is the weather!
But winter's rude tempests are gathering now. No more with affection shall memory, blending,
The wonted delights of our childhood retrace: When pride steels the bosom, the heart is unbending,
And what would be justice appears a disgrace. However, dear George, for I still must esteem you—
The few whom I love I can never upbraidThe chance which has lost may in future redeem you,
Repentance will cancel the vow you have made. I will not complain, and though chill'd is affection,
With me no corroding resentment shall live: My busom is calm'd by the simple reflection,
That both may be wrong, and that both should forgive. You knew that my soul, that my heart, my existence,
If danger demanded, were wholly your own; Pou knew me unalter'd by years or by distance,
Devoted to love and to friendship alone.
TO THE EARL OF CLARE.
" Tu semper amoris Sis memor, et cari comitis ne abscedat imago."-VAL. Flat.
FRIEND of my youth! when young we roved,
With friendship's purest glow,
On mortals here below.
When distant far from you:
And sigh again, adieu!
Those scenes regretted ever;
And we may meet-ah! never!
Together join'd in vain;
Till mingled in the main!
Nor mingle as before :
And both shall quit the shore.
Now flow in different channels:
And shine in fashion's annals.
Without the aid of reason;
Nor left a thought to seize on.,
(1) “Our meetings,” says Lord Byron in 1822, « were parable from his Lordship's person. “He had always," tolen ones, and a gate leading from Mr. Chaworth's | says Captain Medwin, "a black ribbon round his neck, rounds to those of my mother was the place of our inter to which was attached a locket, containing hair and a iews. But the ardour was all on my side. I was serious; picture. We had been playing at billiards one night, he was volatile: she liked me as a younger brother, and till the balls appeared double, when all at once be searcb. reated and laughed at me as a boy ; she, however, gave me ed hastily for something under his waistcoat, and said, in er picture, and that was something to make verses upon. great alarm, Good God! I have lost my !' but before lad I married her, perhaps the whole tenor of my life he had finished the sentence, he discovered the hid. rould have been different." _L. E.
den treasure." - Medwin's Conversations of Lord Byron The picture alluded to in the foregoing note was inse. -P. E.