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.'

Rough was thy

'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! soul, Orla ! yet soft to me as the dew of morn. in lightning; to me a silver beam of night. 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.'

It glared on others Bear my sword to blue

They are laid by the stream of Lubar. Four 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 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 rain

bow; and smile through the tears of the storm.'*

* I fear Laing's late edition has completely overthrown every hope that Mac

TO E. N. L. Esq.

Nil ego contulerim jucundo sanus amico.-HoR. E.

Dear L―, in this sequestered 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 darkened 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 sithe must sweep the flowers

Which bloom among the fairy bowers,

pherson'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 favorite author.

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 sooth 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, untutored, 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 sorrow's 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 lulled 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, ales! are flown,
E is a wife, and C― a mother;
And Carolina sighs alone,

And Mary's given to another;
And Cora's eye, which rolled on me,
Can now no more my love recall;
In truth, dear L, '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 made 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,
Extinguished with the dying embers.
But now, dear L—, '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 performed 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 contained our youth's retreat;
And then, with those our childhood knew,
We'll mingle with 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.

ΤΟ

Oh! had my fate been joined with thine,
As once this pledge appeared 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
'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 in thee alone,
Attempts, alas! to find in many.
Then fare thee well, deceitful maid!
'Twere vain and fruitless to regret thee;
Nor Hope nor Memory yield their aid,
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 matron's fears,

These thoughtless strains to Passion's measures;

If thou wert mine, had all been hushed

This cheek, now pale from early riot,

With Passion's hectic ne'er had flushed,
But bloom'd in calm domestic quiet.

Yes, once the rural scene was sweet,

For Nature seemed to smile before thee;

And once my breast abhorred deceit,

For then it beat but to adore thee.