Oh! could I soar above these feeble lays, It finds an echo in each youthful breast; IDA! not yet exhausted is the theme, IDA! still o'er thy hills in joy preside, Whose friends, like autumn leaves by tempests whirl'd, "When, yet a novice in the mimic art, I feign'd the transports of a vengeful heart- "Ah! vain endeavour in this childish strain A wretched, isolated, gloomy thing, Curst by reflection's deep corroding sting; The silent shaft which goads the guilty wretch Conscience that sting, that shaft to him supplies- One cheerful comfort still is cherish'd here: No dreams of injured innocence infest ; Of hope, of peace, of almost all bereft, ["I am not a Joseph," said Lord Byron, in 1821, "nor a Scipio; but I can safely affirm, that I never in my life seduced any woman."] Revolve the fleeting moments of your youth, ANSWER TO A BEAUTIFUL POEM, ENTITLED Some shall exist beyond the grave. My bosom feeds no' worm which ne'er can die :' + 1["To Dr. Drury," observes Moore, "Lord Byron has left on record a tribute of affection and respect, which, like the reverential regard of Dryden for Dr. Busby, will long associate together honourably the names of the poet and the master." The above is not, however, the only one. In a note to the fourth Canto of Childe Harold, he says, "My preceptor was the best and worthiest friend I ever possessed, whose warnings I have remembered but too well, though too late-when I have erred, and whose counsels I have but followed when I have done well or wisely. If ever this imperfect record of my feelings towards him should reach his eyes, let it remind him of one who never thinks of him but with gratitude and veneration-of one who would more gladly boast of having been his pupil, if by more closely following his injunctions, he could reflect any honour upon his instructor." We extract the following from some unpublished letters of Lord Byron : "Harrow, Nov. 2. 1804. There is so much of the gentleman, so much mildness and nothing of pedantry in his character, that I cannot help liking him, and will remember his instructions with gratitude as long as I live. He is the best master we ever had, and at the same time respected and feared." "Nov. 11. 1804. I revere Dr. Drury. He is never violent, never outrageous. I dread offending him;-not however, through fear; but the respect I bear him makes me unhappy when I am under his displeasure."] 2 "L'Amitié est l'Amour sans ailes," is a French proverb. [See a subsequent poem, under this title.] 3 Written by James Montgomery, author of "The Wanderer in Switzerland," &c. +["We know enough even of Lord Byron's private history to give our warrant that, though his youth may have shared somewhat too largely in the indiscretions of those left too early masters of their own actions and fortunes, falsehood and malice alone can impute to him any real cause for hopeless remorse, or gloomy melancholy." SIR WALTER SCOTT.] opulent neighbours, is to be found (says Mr. Moore) "in his mortifying consciousness of the inadequacy of his own means to his rank, and the proud dread of being made to feel his own inferiority by persons to whom, in every other respect, he knew himself superior." Mr. Becher frequently expostulated with him on this unsociableness; and one of his friendly remonstrances drew forth these lines, so remarkably prefiguring the splendid burst with which Lord Byron's volcanic genius was ere long to open upon the world.] 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 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. 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. The gray 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 flerce 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. 1 It may be necessary to observe, that the story, though considerably varied in the catastrophe, is taken from "Nisus 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. Grey 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 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 banks of Lubar." "Calmar," said the chief of Oithona, "why should thy 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 Morven. She listens to the steps of the hunter on the heath, and thinks it is the tread of Calmar. Let him not say, Calmar has fallen by the steel of Lochlin: he died with gloomy Orla, the chief of the dark brow.' Why should tears dim the azure eye of Mora? Why should her voice curse Orla, the destroyer of Calmar? Live, Calmar! Live to raise my stone of moss; live to revenge me in the blood of Lochlin. Join the song of bards above my grave. Sweet will be the song of death 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." : 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 embers fail in smoke. All is hush'd; but the gale sighs on the rocks above. Lightly wheel the heroes through the slumbering band. Half the journey is past, when Mathon, resting on his shield, meets the eye of Orla. It rolls in flame, and glistens . and Euryalus," of which episode a translation is already given in the present volume. through the shade. His spear is raised on high. "Why dost thou bend thy brow, chief of Oithona? said fair-haired Calmar: "we are in the midst of foes. Is this a time for delay?" "It is a time for vengeance," said Orla of the gloomy brow. "Mathon of Lochlin sleeps: see'st thou his spear? Its point is dim with the gore of my father. The blood of Mathon shall reek on mine; but shall I slay 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 Conna calls; thy life is his; rise to combat." Mathon starts from sleep; but did he rise alone? No: the 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 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! Morven prevails in its strength. 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. Whose yellow locks wave o'er the breast of a chief? Bright as the gold of the stranger, they mingle with the dark hair of his friend. 'Tis Calmar: he lies on the bosom of Orla. Theirs is one stream of blood. Fierce is the look of the gloomy Orla. He breathes not; but his eye is still a flame. It glares in death unclosed. His hand is grasped in Calmar's; but Calmar lives! he lives, though low. "Rise," said the king, "rise, son of Mora: 'tis mine to heal the wounds of heroes. Calmar may yet bound on the hills of Morven." "Never more shall Calmar chase the deer of Morven with Orla," said the hero. "What were the chase to me alone? Who should 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. 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 When Swaran was bound, our sails rose on the blue waves. The winds gave our barks to Morven : -the bards raised the song. "What form rises on the roar of clouds? Whose dark ghost gleams 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 blueeyed 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, " 1 L'AMITIÉ EST L'AMOUR SANS AILES. WHY should my anxious breast repine, Days of delight may still be mine; Affection is not dead. In tracing back the years of youth, Celestial consolation brings; Through few, but deeply chequer'd years, To one idea fondly clings; Which tells the common tale; From yonder studious mansion rings; Friendship is Love without his wings!" Oh Love! before thy glowing shrine My early vows were paid; My hopes, my dreams, my heart was thine, For thine are pinions like the wind, Except, alas! thy jealous stings. Away, away! delusive power, Thou shalt not haunt my coming hour; imitation will be pardoned by the admirers of the original as an attempt, however inferior, which evinces an attachment to their favourite author. 2 [See antè, p. 409. note. We insert this poem here on account of the date of its composition. It was not, however, included in the publication of 1807.] 1 Harrow. 2 [The Earl of Clare. See p. 406.] 3 [The young poet had recently received from Lord Clare, an epistle containing this passage:-"I think by your last letter that you are very much piqued with most of your friends; and, if I am not much mistaken, a little so with mc. In one part you say, 'there is little or no doubt a few years, or months, will render us as politely indifferent to each other, as if we had never passed a portion of our time together:' indeed, Byron, you wrong me; and I have no doubt at least I hope -you wrong yourself."] early the struggle between natural piety and doubt began in his mind." In reading the celebrated critique of the Edinburgh Review on the Hours of Idleness," the fact that the volume did not include this poem, ought to be kept in mind.] [The poet appears to have had in his mind one of Mr. Southey's juvenile pieces, beginning, "Go, thou, unto the house of prayer, 1 |