Does then the Bard sleep here indeed?

Or is it but a groundless creed?

What matters it ?-I blame them not
Whose fancy in this lonely spot

Was moved; and in such way expressed
Their notion of its perfect rest.

A convent, even a Hermit's cell,

Would break the silence of this Dell:
It is not quiet, is not ease;

But something deeper far than these:
The separation that is here

Is of the grave; and of austere
Yet happy feelings of the dead :
And, therefore, was it rightly said
That Ossian, last of all his race,
Lies buried in this lonely place.

WRITTEN ON A BLANK LEAF OF MACPHERSON'S OSSIAN.

OFT have I caught, upon a fitful breeze,
Fragments of far-off melodies,

With ear not coveting the whole,

A part so charmed the pensive soul.
While a dark storm before my sight
Was yielding, on a mountain height
Loose vapours have I watched, that won
Prismatic colours from the sun;
Nor felt a wish that Heaven would show
The image of its perfect bow.

What need, then, of these finished Strains?
Away with counterfeit Remains !

An abbey in its lone recess,

A temple of the wilderness,

Wrecks though they be, announce with feeling The majesty of honest dealing.

Spirit of Ossian ! if imbound

In language thou may'st yet be found,

If aught (intrusted to the pen

Or floating on the tongues of men,
Albeit shattered and impaired)

Subsist thy dignity to guard,

In concert with memorial claim

Of old gray stone, and high-born name,
That cleaves to rock or pillared cave,

Where moans the blast, or beats the wave,
Let Truth, stern arbitress of all,

Interpret that original,

And for presumptuous wrongs atone;
Authentic words be given, or none !

Time is not blind;-yet He, who spares
Pyramid pointing to the Stars,

Hath preyed with ruthless appetite

On all that marked the primal flight

Of the poetic ecstasy

Into the land of mystery.

No tongue is able to rehearse

One measure, Orpheus! of thy verse;
Musæus, stationed with his lyre
Supreme among the Elysian quire,
Is, for the dwellers upon earth,
Mute as a Lark ere morning's birth.
Why grieve for these, though past away
The music, and extinct the lay?

When thousands, by severer doom,

Full early to the silent tomb

Have sunk, at Nature's call; or strayed From hope and promise, self-betrayed; The garland withering on their brows; Stung with remorse for broken vows; Frantic-else how might they rejoice! And friendless, by their own sad choice.

Hail, Bards of mightier grasp! on you
I chiefly call, the chosen Few,
Who cast not off the acknowledged guide,
Who faltered not, nor turned aside;
Whose lofty Genius could survive
Privation, under sorrow thrive;
In whom the fiery Muse revered
The symbol of a snow-white beard,
Bedewed with meditative tears

Dropped from the lenient cloud of years.

Brothers in Soul! though distant times
Produced you, nursed in various climes,
Ye, when the orb of life had waned,
A plenitude of love retained;
Hence, while in you each sad regret
By corresponding hope was met,
Ye lingered among human kind,
Sweet voices for the passing wind;
Departing sunbeams, loth to stop,
Though smiling on the last hill top !

Such to the tender-hearted Maid
Even ere her joys begin to fade;
Such, haply, to the rugged Chief

By Fortune crushed, or tamed by grief;

Appears, on Morven's lonely shore,
Dim-gleaming through imperfect lore,
The Son of Fingal; such was blind
Mæonides of ample mind;
Such Milton, to the fountain-head
Of glory by Urania led !

THE WISHING-GATE.

In the vale of Grasmere, by the side of the highway leading to Ambleside, is a gate, which, time out of mind, has been called the Wishing-gate, from a belief that wishes formed or indulged there have a favourable issue.

HOPE rules a land for ever green :

All powers that serve the bright-eyed Queen
Are confident and gay;

Clouds at her bidding disappear;

Points she to aught ?-the bliss draws near,

And Fancy smooths the way.

Not such the land of wishes-there

Dwell fruitless day-dreams, lawless prayer,

And thoughts with things at strife;
Yet how forlorn, should ye depart,
Ye superstitions of the heart,
How poor were human life!

When magic lore abjured its might,

Ye did not forfeit one dear right,
One tender claim abate;

Witness this symbol of your sway,
Surviving near the public way,
The rustic Wishing-gate!

Inquire not if the faery race
Shed kindly influence on the place,
Ere northward they retired;

If here a warrior left a spell,
Panting for glory as he fell ;
Or here a saint expired.

Enough that all around is fair,
Composed with Nature's finest care,

And in her fondest love;

Peace to embosom and content,

To overawe the turbulent,

The selfish to reprove.

Yea! even the Stranger from afar,
Reclining on this moss-grown bar,
Unknowing, and unknown,

The infection of the ground partakes,
Longing for his Beloved-who makes
All happiness her own.

Then why should conscious Spirits fear The mystic stirrings that are here,

The ancient faith disclaim?

The local Genius ne'er befriends
Desires whose course in folly ends,
Whose just reward is shame.