Their chief's retainers, an immortal band.

Else might inspiring Fancy's magic eye
Retrace their progress, through the lapse of time;
Marking each ardent youth, ordain'd to die,
A votive pilgrim, in Judea's clime.

But not from thee, dark pile! departs the Chief,
His feudal realm in other regions lay;
In thee, the wounded conscience courts relief,
Retiring from the garish blaze of day.
Yes, in thy gloomy cells and shades profound,
The monk abjured a world he ne'er could view;
Or blood-stain'd Guilt repenting solace found,
Or innocence from stern Oppression flew.

A monarch bade thee from that wild arise,

Years roll on years-to ages, ages yield-
Abbots to abbots in a line succeed,
Religion's charter their protecting shield,

Till royal sacrilege their doom decreed.
One holy HENRY rear'd the Gothic walls,
And bade the pious inmates rest in peace;
Another HENRY 1 the kind gift recalls,

And bids devotion's hallow'd echoes cease.
Vain is each threat, or supplicating prayer,
He drives them exiles from their blest abode,
To roam a dreary world, in deep despair,

No friend, no home, no refuge but their God.
Hark! how the hall, resounding to the strain,
Shakes with the martial music's novel din!
The heralds of a warrior's haughty reign,
High-crested banners, wave thy walls within.
Of changing sentinels the distant hum,

The mirth of feasts, the clang of burnish'd arms,
The braying trumpet, and the hoarser drum,
Unite in concert with increased alarms.
An abbey once, a regal fortress 2
Encircled by insulting rebel powers;

now,

War's dread machines o'erhang thy threatening brow
And dart destruction in sulphureous showers.

Ah! vain defence! the hostile traitor's siege,
Though oft repulsed, by guile o'ercomes the brave;
His thronging foes oppress the faithful liege,
Rebellion's reeking standards o'er him wave.
Not unavenged, the raging baron yields,

The blood of traitors smears the purple plain;
Unconquer'd still his falchion there he wields,
And days of glory yet for him remain.
Still, in that hour the warrior wish'd to strew
Self-gather'd laurels on a self-sought grave;
But Charles' protecting genius hither flew,

The monarch's friend, the monarch's hope, to save.
Trembling she snatch'd him3 from the unequal strife,
In other fields the torrent to repel,

For nobler combats here reserved his life,

To lead the band where godlike FALKLAND4 fell.

Where Sherwood's outlaws once were wont to prowl; From thee, poor pile! to lawless plunder given,

And Superstition's crimes, of various dyes,
Sought shelter in the priest's protecting cowl.
Where now the grass exhales a murky dew,
The humid pall of life-extinguish'd clay,
In sainted fame the sacred fathers grew,
Nor raised their pious voices, but to pray.
Where now the bats their wavering wings extend,
Soon as the gloaming' spreads her waning shade,
The choir did oft their mingling vespers blend,
Or matin orisons to Mary paid.

While dying groans their painful requiem sound,
Far different incense now ascends to heaven-
Such victims wallow on the gory ground.
There, many a pale and ruthless robber's corse,
Noisome and ghast, defiles thy sacred sod;
O'er mingling man, and horse commix'd with horse,
Corruption's heap, the savage spoilers trod.
Graves, long with rank and sighing weeds o'erspread,
Ransack'd, resign perforce their mortal mould;
From ruffian fangs escape not e'en the dead,
Raked from repose, in search of buried gold.

1 As one poem on this subject is printed in the beginning,
the author had originally no intention of inserting the follow-stowed Newstead Abbey on Sir John Byron.

1 At the dissolution of the Monasteries, Henry VIII. be

ing it is now added at the particular request of some friends. Henry II. founded Newstead soon after the murder of Thomas-a-Becket.

3 This word is used by Walter Scott, in his poem, "The Wild Huntsman," as synonymous with Vassal.

4 The Red Cross was the badge of the Crusaders. 5 As "Gloaming," the Scottish word for Twilight, is far more poetical, and has been recommended by many eminent literary men, particularly Dr. Moore, in his Letters to Burns. I have ventured to use it on account of its harmony. The Priory was dedicated to the Virgin

2 Newstead sustained a considerable siege in the war between Charles I. and his Parliament.

3 Lord Byron and his brother Sir William held high com mands in the royal army; the former was General in Chief iu Ireland, Lieutenant of the Tower, and Governor to James Duke of York, afterwards the unhappy James II. The latter had a principal share in many actions. Vide Clarendon, Hume, etc.

4 Lucius Cary, Lord Viscount Falkland, the most accomplished man of his age, was killed at the battle of Newberty, charging in the ranks of Lord Byron's regiment of cavalry

Place me along the rocks I love,

Which sound to ocean's wildest roar;

I ask but this again to rove
Through scenes my youth hath known before.
Few are my years, and yet I feel

The world was ne'er design'd for me;
Ah! why do dark'ning shades conceal
The hour when man must cease to be?
Once I beheld a splendid dream,

A visionary scene of bliss;
Truth! wherefore did thy hated beam
Awake me to a world like this?

I loved-but those I loved are gone;
Had friends-my early friends are fled;
How cheerless feels the heart alone

When all its former hopes are dead!
Though gay companions o'er the bowl
Dispel awhile the sense of ill,

Though Pleasure stirs the maddening soul,
The heart-the heart is lonely still.
How dull to hear the voice of those

Whom Rank or Chance, whom Wealth or Power,
Have made, though neither friends nor foes,

Associates of the festive hour.

Give me again a faithful few,

In years and feelings still the same, And I will fly the midnight crew,

Where boist'rous Joy is but a name.
And Woman! lovely Woman, thou,
My hope, my comforter, my all!
How cold must be my bosom now,
When e'en thy smiles begin to pall!
Without a sigh would I resign

Thas busy scene of splendid woe,
To make that calm contentment mine
Which Virtue knows, or seems to know.
Fain would I fly the haunts of men-
I seek to shun, not hate mankind;
My breast requires the sullen glen,
Whose gloom may suit a darken'd mind.
Oh! that to me the wings were given
Which bear the turtle to her nest!
Then would I cleave the vault of Heaven,
To flee away and be at rest.1

LINES

How do thy branches, moaning to the blast,
Invite the bosom to recall the past;
And seem to whisper, as they gently swell,
"Take, while thou can'st, a lingering last farewell ""
When Fate shall chill at length this fever'd breast,
And calm its cares and passions into rest,
Oft have I thought 't would soothe my dying hour,
If aught may soothe when life resigns her power,
To know some humbler grave, some narrow cell,
Would hide my bosom where it loved to dwell:
With this fond dream methinks 't were sweet to die-
And here it linger'd, here my heart might lie;
Here might I sleep, where all my hopes arose,
Scene of my youth, and couch of my repose:
For ever stretch'd beneath this mantling shade,
Prest by the turf where once my childhood play'd,
Wrapt by the soil that veils the spot I loved,
Mix'd with the earth o'er which my footsteps moved;
Blest by the tongues that charm'd my youthful ear,
Mourn'd by the few my soul acknowledged here,
Deplored by those in early days allied,
And unremember'd by the world beside.

THE DEATH OF CALMAR AND ORLA.
An imitation of Macpherson's Ossian,1

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; Lochlm's sons had fled before his angry spear: but mild was the eye of Calmar; soft was the flow of his yellow locks— they stream'd 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

WhirTEN BENEATH AN ELM IN THE CHURCHYARD dwelt in the cave of Oithona.

OF HARROW ON THE HILL.

SEPT. 2, 1807.

SPOT of my youth! whose hoary branches sigh,
Swept by the breeze that fans thy cloudless sky;
Where now alone I muse, who oft have trod,
With those I loved, thy soft and verdant sod;
With those who, scatter'd far, perchance deplore,
Like me, the happy scenes they knew before:
Oh! as I trace again thy winding hill,
Minc eyes admire, my heart adores thee still,
Thou drooping Elm! beneath whose boughs I lay,
And frequent mused the twilight hours away;
Where, as they once were wont, my limbs recline,
But ah without the thoughts which then were mine:

1 Psalm lv. v. 6.—" And I said, Oh! that I had wings like a dove, then would I fly away and be at rest." This verse also constitutes a part of the most beautiful anthem in our

,anguage

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.

1 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 has been al ready given.

"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 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 Morven prevails in his strength. on the banks of Lubar."-" Calmar!" said the chief of Otthona, "why should tùy 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 Whose yellow locks wave o'er the breast of a chief? Morven. She listens to the steps of the hunter on the bright as the gold of the stranger, they mingle with the heath, and thinks it is the tread of Calmar. Let him dark hair of his friend. 'Tis Calmar-he lies on the not say, 'Caimar is fallen by the steel of Lochlin; he bosom of Orla. Theirs is one stream of blood. Fierce died with gloomy Orla, the chief of the dark brow.' is the look of the gloomy Orla. He breathes not; but Why should tears dim the azure eye of Mora? Why his eye is still a flame: it glares in death unclosed. should her voice curse Orla, the destroyer of Calmar? His hand is grasped in Calmar's; but Calmar lives: he Live, Calmar! live to raise my stone of moss; live to lives, though low. "Rise," said the king, "rise, son of revenge me in the blood of Lochlin! Join the song of Mora, 't is mine to heal the wounds of heroes. Calmar bards above my grave. Sweet will be the song of death may yet bound on the hills of Morven." 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."

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 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 on the wind. Dreadful is the clang of death! many are the widows of Lochlin.

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.

"Never more shall Calmar chase the deer of Morven with Orla;" said the hero, "what were the chase to me, alone? Who would 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 winds gave our barks to Morven. The Bards raised the song.

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 "What form rises on the roar of clouds! whose dark embers fail in smoke. All is hushed; but the gale ghost gleams on the red streams of tempests? his voice sighs on the rocks above. Lightly wheel the heroes rolls on the thunder. "Tis Orla; the brown chief of through the slumbering band. Half the journey is Oithona. He was unmatched in war. Peace to thy soul, past, when Mathon, resting on his shield, meets the Orla! thy fame will not perish. Nor thine, Calmar! lovely eye of Orla. It rolls in flame, and glistens through the wast thou, son of blue-eyed Mora; but not harmless shade: his spear is raised on high. "Why dost thou was thy sword. It hangs in thy cave. The ghosts of bend thy brow, Chief of Oithona?" said fair-haired Lochlin shriek around its steel. Hear thy praise, Calmar! Calmar. "We are in the midst of foes. Is this a time it dwells on the voice of the mighty. Thy name shakes for delay ?"—"It is a time for vengeance," said Orla, on the echoes of Morven. Then raise thy fair locks, son of the gloomy brow. "Mathon of Lochlin sleeps: seest of Mora; spread them on the arch of the rainbow, and thon his spear? Its point is dim with the gore of my smile through the tears of the storm.”1 father. The blood of Mathon shall reek on mine; but shall Islay 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 Connal calls; thy life is his rise to combat." Mathon starts from deep, but did he rise alone? No: the gathering chiefs bound on the plain. "Fly, Calmar, fly!" said dark

a

11 fear Laing's late edition has completely overthrown every hope that Macpherson's Ossian might prove the Translation of series of Poems, complete in themselves; but, while the im posture is discovered, the merit of the work remains undisputed, though not without faults, particularly, in some parts, turgid and doned by the admirers of the original, as an attempt, nowever bombastic diction.-The present humble imitation will be parinferior, which evinces an attachment to their favourite author