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Fraternal smiles collected round me seem ;
While still the visions to my heart are prest,
The voice of love will murmur in my rest:
I hear I wake-and in the sound rejoice;
I hear again, but ah! no brother's voice.
A hermit, midst of crowds, I fain would stray,
Alone, though thousand pilgrims fill the way;
While these a thousand kindred wreaths entwine,
I cannot call one single blossom mine:
What then remains? in solitude to groan,
To mix in friendship, or to sigh alone.
Thus must I cling to some endearing hand,
And none more dear than Ida's social band.

Alonzo! best and dearest of my friends,
Thy name ennobles him who thus commends:
From this fond tribute thou canst gain no praise:
The praise is his who now that tribute pays.
Oh! in the promise of thy early youth,
If hope anticipate the words of truth,
Some loftier bard shall sing thy glorious name,
To build his own upon thy deathless fame.
Friend of my heart, and foremost of the list
Of those with whom I lived supremely blest,
Oft have we drain'd the font of ancient lore;
Though drinking deeply, thirsting still the more.
Yet, when confinement's lingering hour was done,
Our sports, our studies, and our souls were one:
Together we impell'd the flying ball;
Together waited in our tutor's hall;
Together join'd in cricket's manly toil,
Or shared the produce of the river's spoil;
Or, plunging from the green declining shore,
Our pliant limbs the buoyant billows bore;
In every element, unchanged, the same,
All, all that brothers should be, but the name

Nor yet are you forgot, my jocund boy! Davus, the harbinger of childish joy; For ever foremost in the ranks of fun, The laughing herald of the harmless pun; Yet with a breast of such materials madeAnxious to please, of pleasing half afraid; Candid and liberal, with a heart of steel In danger's path, though not untaught to feel. Still I remember, in the factious strife, The rustic's musket aim'd against my life; High poised in air the massy weapon hung, A cry of horror burst from every tongue; Whilst I, in combat with another foe, Fought on, unconscious of th' impending blow; Your arm, brave boy, arrested his career-Forward you sprung, insensible to fear; Disarm'd and baffled by your conquering hand, The grovelling savage roll'd upon the sand: An act like this, can simple thanks repay? Or all the labours of a grateful lay? Oh no! whene'er my breast forgets the deed, That instant, Davus, it deserves to bleed.

Lycus on me thy claims are justly great : Thy milder virtues could my muse relate, To thee alone, unrivall'd, would belong The feeble efforts of my lengthen'd song. Well canst thou boast, to lead in senates fit, A Spartan firmness with Athenian wit: Though yet in embryo these perfections shine, Lycus! thy father's fame will soon be thine. Where learning nurtures the superior mind, What may we hope from genius thus refined! When time at length matures thy growing years, How wilt thou tower above thy fellow peers


Prudence and sense, a spirit bold and free,
With honour's soul, united beam in thee.

Shall fair Euryalus pass by unsung?
From ancient lineage, not unworthy sprung:
What though one sad dissension bade us part?
That name is yet embalm'd within my heart;
Yet at the mention does that heart rebound,
And palpitate, responsive to the sound.
Envy dissolved our ties, and not our will:
We once were friends,-I'll think we are so still.
A form unmatch'd in nature's partial mould,
A heart untainted, we in thee behold:
Yet not the senate's thunder thou shalt wield,
Nor seek for glory in the tented field;
To minds of ruder texture these be given-
Thy soul shall nearer soar its native heaven.
Haply, in polish'd courts might be thy seat,
But that thy tongue could never forge deceit :
The courtier's supple bow and sneering smile,
The flow of compliment, the slippery wile,
Would make that breast with indignation burn,
And all the glittering snares to tempt thee purn-
Domestic happiness will stamp thy fate;
Sacred to love, unclouded e'er by hate;
The world admire thee, and thy friends adore;
Ambition's slave alone would toil for more.

Now last, but nearest, of the social band, See honest, open, generous Cleon stand; With scarce one speck to cloud the pleasing


No vice degrades that purest soul serene.
On the same day our studious race begun,
On the same day our studious race was run;
Thus side by side we pass'd our first career,
Thus side by side we strove for many a year;
At last concluded our scholastic life,
We neither conquer'd in the classic strife:
As speakers, each supports an equal name.*
And crowds allow to both a partial fame :
To soothe a youthful rival's early pride,
Though Cleon's candour would the palm divide,
Yet candour's self compels me now to own
Justice awards it to my friend alone.

Oh! friends regretted, scenes for ever dear,
Remembrance hails you with her warmest tear!
Drooping, she bends o'er pensive Fancy's uru,
To trace the hours which never can return;
Yet with the retrospection loves to dwell,
And soothe the sorrows of her last farewell!
Yet greets the triumph of my boyish mind,
As infant laurels round my head are twined.
When Probus' praise repaid my lyric song,
Or placed me higher in the studious throng;
Or when my first harangue received applause,
His sage instruction the primeval cause,
What gratitude to him my soul possest,
While hope of dawning honours fill'd my breast
For all my humble fame, to him alone
The praise is due, who made that fame my oWIL
Oh! could I soar above these feeble lays,
These young effusions of my early days,
To him my muse her noblest strain would give:
The song might perish, but the theme might live
Yet why for him the needless verse essay?
His honour'd name requires no vain display:
By every son of grateful Ida blest,
It finds an echo in each youthful breast;

* In allusion to the public speeches delivers. at the school where the author was educate.

A fame beyond the glories of the proud,
Or all the plaudits of the venal crowd.

Ida! not yet exhausted is the theme,
Nor closed the progress of my youthful dream.
How many a friend deserves the grateful strain!
What scenes of childhood still unsung remain !
Yet let me hush this echo of the past,
This parting song, the dearest and the last;
And brood in secret o'er those hours of joy,
To me a silent and a sweet employ,
While, future hope and fear alike unknown,
I think with pleasure on the past alone;
Yes, to the past alone my heart confine,
And chase the phantom of what once was mine.

Ida! still o'er thy hills in joy preside,
And proudly steer through time's eventful tide;
Still may thy blooming sons thy name revere,
Smile in thy bower, but quit thee with a tear,-
That tear, perhaps, the fondest which will flow
O'er their last scene of happiness below.
Tell me, ye hoary few, who glide along,
The feeble veterans of some former throng,
Whose friends, like autumn leaves by tempests

Are swept for ever from this busy world;
Revolve the fleeting moments of your youth,
While Care as yet withheld her venom'd tooth;
Say if remembrance days like these endears
Beyond the rapture of succeeding years?
Say, can ambition's fever'd dream bestow
So sweet a balm to soothe your hours of woe?
Can treasures, hoarded for some thankless son,
Can royal smiles, or wreaths by slaughter won,
Can stars or ermine, man's maturer toys,
(For glittering baubles are not left to boys),
Recall one scene so much beloved to view
As those where Youth her garland twined for

Ah, no! amidst the gloomy calm of age
You turn with faltering hand life's varied page;
Peruse the record of your days on earth,
Unsullied only where it marks your birth;
Still lingering pause above each chequer'd leaf,
And blot with tears the sable lines of grief;
Where Passion o'er the theme her mantle threw,
Or weeping Virtue sigh'd a faint adieu;
But bless the scroll which fairer words adorn,
Traced by the rosy finger of the morn;
When Friendship bow'd before the shrine of

And Love, without his pinion, smiled on youth.


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ENTITLED "THE COMMON LOT. MONTGOMERY! true, the common lot Of mortals lies in Lethe's wave; Yet some shall never be forgot,

Some shall exist beyond the grave. "Unknown the region of his birth,” The hero rolls the tide of war; Yet not unknown his martial worth, Which glares a meteor from afar. His joy or grief, his weal or woe, Perchance may 'scape the page of fame; Yet nations now unborn wili know The record of his deathless name.

* Ly James Montgomery.

The patriot's and the poet's fi me

Must share the common tomb of all: Their glory will not sleep the same;

That will arise, though empires fall. The lustre of a beauty's eye

Assumes the ghastly stare of death; The fair, the brave, the good must die, And sink the yawning grave beneath. Once more the speaking eye revives, Still beaming through the lover's strain; For Petrarch's Laura still survives: She died, but ne'er will die again. The rolling seasons pass away,

And Time, untiring, waves his wing; Whilst honour's laurels ne'er decay,

But bloom in fresh, unfading spring. All, all must sleep in grim repose,

Collected in the silent tomb; The old and young, with friends and foes, Festering alike in shrouds, consume. The mouldering marble lasts its day, Yet falls at length a useless fane; To ruin's ruthless fangs a prey,

The wrecks of pillar'd pride remain. What, though the sculpture be destroy'd, From dark oblivion meant to guard; A bright renown shall be enjoy'd By those whose virtues claim reward. Then do not say the common lot

Of all lies deep in Lethe's wave; Some few who ne'er will be forgot

Shall burst the bondage of the grave.



DEAR Becher, you tell me to mix with mankind;

I cannot deny such a precept is wise; But retirement accords with the tone of my mind: I will not descend to a world I despise. Did the senate or camp my exertions require, Ambition might prompt me at once to go forth:

When infancy's years of probation expire, Perchance I may strive to distinguish my birth.

The fire in the cavern of Etna conceal'd,

Still mantles unseen in its secret recess : At length in a volume terrific reveal'd, No torrent can quench it, no bounds can repress.

Oh! thus the desire in my bosom for fame,

Bids me live but to hope for posterity's praise. Could I soar with the phoenix on pinions of flame,

With him I would wish to expire in the blaze. For the life of a Fox, of a Chatham the death, What censure, what danger, what woe would

I brave!

Their lives did not end when they yielded their breath;

Their glory illumines the gloom of their grave. Yet why should I mingle in Fashion's full herd? Why crouch to her leaders, or cringe to her rules?

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THE DEATH OF CALMAR AND ORLA. AN IMITATION OF MACPHERSON'S OSSIAN.* 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 grey 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. 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 fierce 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. 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

This story, though considerably varied in the catastrophe, is taken from Nisus and Euryalus, of which episode a translation is already given.

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 death to me? I love the sleep of the mighty, What is dark-haired Orla, "and mine alone. 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 feasts 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 her 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 through the shade. His spear is raised on high. "Why dost thou bend thy brow, chief of Ŏithona?" 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: seest thou his spear! Its point is dim with the gore of my father. The blood of Mathon shall reek on mine: bat 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:

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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. 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. grey 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.

"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 blue-eyed Mora; but not harmless was thy sword. It hangs in thy 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."

"Nil ego contulerim jocundo sanus amico."-
DEAR Long, in this sequester'd scene,
While all around in slumber lie,
The joyous days which ours have been
Come rolling fresh on Fancy's eye;
Thus if amidst the gathering storm,
While clouds the darken'd noon deform,
Yon heaven assumes a varied glow,
I hail the sky's celestial bow,
Which spreads the sign of future peace,
And bids the war of tempests cease.
Ah! though the present brings but pain.
I think those days may come again:
Or if, in melancholy mood,

Some lurking envious fear intrude,
To check my bosom's fondest thought,
And interrupt the golden dream,

I crush the fiend with malice fraught,
And still indulge my wonted theme.
Although we ne'er again can trace,

In Granta's vale the pedant's lore;
Nor through the groves of Ida chase

Our raptured visions as before,
Though Youth has flown on rosy pinion,
And Manhood claims his stern dominion,
Age will not every hope destroy,
But yield some hours of sober joy.

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 unmoved misfortune's groan,
And bids me feel for self alone;
Oh, may my bosom never learn

To soothe its wonted heedless flow,
Still, still despise the censor stern,

But ne'er forget another's woe.
Yes, as you knew me in the days
O'er which Remembrance yet delays,
Still may I rove, untutor'd, wild,
And even in age at heart a child.
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'd by zephyr to repose.
Full 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 ; is a wife, and C― a mother,

And Carolina sighs alone,

And Mary's given to another; And Cora's eye, which roll'd on me,

Can now no more my love recall: In truth, dear Long, 'twas time to flee; For Cora's eye will shine on all. And though the sun, with genial rays, His beams alike to all displays, And every lady's eye's a sun, These last should be confined to one. The soul's meridian don't become her, Whose sun displays a general summer! Thus faint is every former flame, And passion's self is now a name. As, when the ebbing flames are low, 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. But now, dear Long, 'tis midnight's noon, And clouds obscure the watery moon, Whose beauties I shall not rehearse, Described in every stripling's verse; For why should I the path go o'er, Which every bard has trod before? Yet ere yon silver lamp of night

Has thrice perform'd her stated round, Has thrice retraced her path of light,

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; 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 soul shall pour The sacred intellectual shower, Nor cease till Luna's waning horn Scarce glimmers through the mist of morn.


OH! had my fate been join'd with thine,
As once this pledge appear'd a token,
These follies had not then been mine,
For then my peace had not been broken.
To thee these early faults I owe,

To thee, the wise and old reproving:
They know my sins, but do not know

Then fare thee well, deceitful maid!

'Twere vain and fruitless to regret thee; Nor Hope nor Memory yield their aid,

'Twas 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 with thee alone, Attempts, alas' to find in many.

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 matrons' fears, These thoughtless strains to passion's mea.


If thou wert mine, had all been 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,
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 madness; In thoughtless throngs and empty noise I conquer half my bosom's sadness. Yet, even in these a thought will steal In spite of every vain endeavourAnd fiends might pity what I feel

To know that thou art lost for ever.


I WOULD I were a careless child,

Still dwelling in my Highland cave, Or roaming through the dusky wild,

Or bounding o'er the dark blue wave. The cumbrous pomp of Saxon pride

Accords not with the free-born soul, Which loves the mountain's craggy side, And seeks the rocks where billows roll. Fortune! take back these cultured lands, Take back this name of splendid sound! I hate the touch of servile hands,

I hate the slaves that cringe around. Place me among 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 darkening 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 boisterous joy is but a name.

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