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 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."

FRIEND of my youth! when young we roved,
Like striplings, mutually beloved,

With friendship's purest glow;

The bliss which wing'd those rosy hours,
Was such as pleasure seldom showers
On mortals here below.

The recollection seems, alone,
Dearer than all the joys I 've known,
When distant far from you;

Though pain, 't is still a pleasing pain,
To trace those days and hours again,
And sigh again, adieu!

My pensive memory lingers o'er
Those scenes to be enjoy'd no more,
Those scenes regretted ever;

The measure of our youth is full,
Life's evening dream is dark and dull,
And we may meet—ah, never!

As when one parent spring supplies
Two streams, which from one fountain rise,
Together join'd in vain ;

How soon, diverging from their source,
Each, murmuring, seeks another course,

Till mingled in the main.

* 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 favourite author.

Our vital streams of weal or woe,
Though near, alas! distinctly flow,
Nor mingle as before;

Now swift or slow, now black or clear,
Till death's unfathom'd gulph appear,
And both shall quit the shore.

Our souls, my friend! which once supplied
One wish, nor breathed a thought beside,
Now flow in different channels;
Disdaining humbler rural sports,
'T is yours to mix in polish'd courts,
And shine in fashion's annals.

'T is mine to waste on love my time,
Or vent my reveries in rhyme,

Without the aid of reason;
For sense and reason (critics know it)
Have quitted every amorous poet,
Nor left a thought to seize on.

Poor Little! sweet, melodious bard!
Of late esteem'd it monstrous hard,
That he who sang before all,
He who the lore of love expanded,——
By dire reviewers should be branded,
As void of wit and moral. *

And yet, while beauty's praise is thine,
Harmonious favourite of the Nine!
Repine not at thy lot;

Thy soothing lays may still be read,
When persecution's arm is dead,
And critics are forgot.

Still I must yield those worthies merit,

Who chasten, with unsparing spirit,

Bad rhymes, and those who write them;

And though myself may be the next

By critic sarcasm to be vext,

I really will not fight them.†

* These stanzas were written soon after the appearance of a severe critique in a Northern review, on a new publication of the British Anacreon.

† A bard (horresco referens) defied his reviewer to mortal combat. If this example becomes prevalent, our periodical censors must be dipped in the river Styx, for what else can secure them from the numerous host of their enraged assailants?

Perhaps they would do quite as well,
To break the rudely sounding shell
Of such a young beginner;
He who offends at pert nineteen,
Ere thirty, may become, I ween,
A very harden'd sinner.

Now, Clare, I must return to you,
And sure apologies are due :

Accept then my concession;

In truth, dear Clare, in fancy's flight,
1 soar along from left to right,
My muse admires digression.

I think I said 't would be your fate
To add one star to royal state;

May regal smiles attend you;
And should a noble monarch reign,
You will not seek his smiles in vain,
If worth can recommend you.

Yet, since in danger courts abound,
Where specious rivals glitter round,

From snares may Saints preserve you; And grant your love or friendship ne'er From any claim a kindred care,

But those who best deserve you.

Not for a moment may you stray
From truth's secure unerring way,
May no delights decoy!
O'er roses may your footsteps move,
Your smiles be ever smiles of love,
Your tears be tears of joy.

Oh! if you wish that happiness
Your coming days and years may bless,

And virtues crown your brow,

Be still as you were wont to be,
Spotless as you 've been known to me,
Be still as you are now.

And though some trifling share of praise,
To cheer my last declining days,

To me were doubly dear;
Whilst blessing your beloved name,
I'd waive at once a poet's fame,

To prove a prophet here.

SONG.

WHEN I roved, a young Highlander, o'er the dark heath, And climb'd thy steep summit, oh! Morven of snow,* the torrent that thunder'd beneath,

To

gaze on

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 grew, No feeling, save one, to my bosom was dear:

Need I say, my sweet Mary, 't was centred in you?

Yet it could not be love, for I knew not the name,-
What passion can dwell in the heart of a child?
But still I perceive an emotion the same

As I felt, when a boy, on the crag-cover'd wild:
One image alone on my bosom impress'd,

I loved my bleak regions, nor panted for new;
And few were my wants, for my wishes were bless'd,
And pure were my thoughts, for my soul was with

I arose with the dawn; with my dog as my guide,
From mountain to mountain I bounded along,
I breasted the billows of Dee's § rushing tide,
And heard at a distance the Highlander's song:
At eve, on my heath-cover'd couch of repose,
No dreams, save of Mary, were spread to my view,
And warm to the skies my devotions arose,

For the first of my prayers was a blessing on you.

I left

my bleak home, and my visions are gone, The mountains are vanish'd, my youth is no more; As the last of my race, I must wither alone,

And delight but in days I have witness'd before.

Ah! splendour has raised, but embitter'd

my lot;

you.

More dear were the scenes which my infancy knew: Though my hopes may have fail'd, yet they are not forgot; Though cold is my heart, still it lingers with you.

* Morven, a lofty mountain in Aberdeenshire: "Gormal of snow" is an expression frequently to be found in Ossian,

This will not appear extraordinary to those who have been accustomed to the mountains: it is by no means uncommon on attaining the top of Ben-e-vis, Ben-y bourd, etc., to perceive, between the summit and the valley, clouds pouring down rain, and occasionally accompanied by lightning, while the spectator literally looks down on the storm, perfectly secure from its effects.

"Breasting the lofty surge." SHAKSPEARE.

§ The Dee is a beautiful river, which rises near Mar Lodge, and falls into the sea at New Aberdeen.

When I see some dark hill point its crest to the sky,
I think of the rocks that o'ershadow Colbleen; *
When I see the soft blue of a love-speaking eye,

I think of those eyes that endear'd the rude scene;
When, haply, some light-waving locks I behold,
That faintly resemble my Mary's in hue,
I think on the long flowing ringlets of gold,

The locks that were sacred to beauty and you.

Yet the day may arrive, when the mountains once more
Shall rise to my sight, in their mantles of snow;
But while these soar above me, unchanged as before,
Will Mary be there to receive me? ah, no!
Adieu! then, ye hills, where my childhood was bred,
Thou sweet-flowing Dee, to thy waters adieu!

No home in the forest shall shelter head:

my

Ah! Mary, what home could be mine, but with you?

TO GEORGE, EARL DELAWARR.

Он! 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.

But 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 upbraid,-

The chance, which has lost, may in future redeem you,
Repentance will cancel the vow you have made.

* Colbleen is a mountain near the verge of the Highlands, not far from the ruins of Dee Castle.