The death of Washington | ||
THE DEATH OF WASHINGTON.
A POEM. IN IMITATION OF THE MANNER OF OSSIAN.
Thron'd in a burning car, the thundering wheels
Arm'd with gigantic scythes of adamant
Shall scour these fields of death: and in the rear
The fiend Oblivion: Kingdoms, empires, worlds
Melt in the general blaze: when, lo, from high
Andraste darting catches from the wreck
The roll of Fame, claps her ascending plumes
And stamps on orient stars each patriot name
Round her eternal dome.
Maida.
PREFACE.
The memory of the illustrious General George Washington should ever be held in the heart of his Country, to whom his character was an honour, and to whom he rendered the most signal services. The voice of his praise should never slumber, and his mighty example should never die. Every attempt to pay the debt due to his labours for us, is laudable, tho' it may prove unsuccessful, for tho' the understanding may not be equal to the task of gratitude, yet the heart thereby declares its warmest wishes.
I have from my earliest days admired the Poems of Ossian.—Their manner, so chaste and simple, renders them an happy conveyance of the sentiments of eulogy, and makes nearer approach to the unequalled excellence of the sacred scriptures than that of any other writings I have ever seen. When great grief or joy affects the soul, our expressions cannot be subjected to the rules of art. A sudden exclamation, in seemingly irregular
In his silent hall, sat the Bard, and thought on the deeds of fame. Sorrow was on his cheek, and his harp lay by his side. The loud blast howled around his hall, and the sons of the sea were heard to dash the waters of the deep. The moon looked pale behind a
Once an hundred bards surrounded the king of the isle of mists. But they all rest in the narrow house. Ossian is now no more. Carril is now no more. Death has fallen on their harps. They animate no longer the strife of spears. The ghosts of their fathers visit no longer their dreams. They sit no longer by the mossy fountains, on the top of
Roll on ye dark-brown years, sorrow is in your course. Joy sits not on the passing hour. The sun sinks sullen behind his hill. The moon rises in blood. Mournful Potowmac rolls his dark-blue wave, and washes the shores where sleep the ashes of the Hero. On a rock high as Tromathon where the eagle build his
Return to my mind, ye years that have passed! Scenes of former days revisit my remembrance! Let the deeds of Fingal's youth live in my song—the deeds of Fingal when he first lifted the spear of his fathers—Bright in the dawn of life, he followed an Albion chief to
The years rolled on in their course, and peace dwelt on those rolling years. At length over the waters of the deep came the sons of Albion to war against the land of our fathers and the rights of their children. In numbers, trained to blood, they poured on the defenceless shores; dismay struck the peasant's heart: discord reared her dark standard, and liberty was rising on her airy wings. Fingal was again called to the battle. He answered the call— and again shook his spear amid the fields of blood. He was chosen first among the chiefs high in fame. Every warrior owned his commands. They followed his footsteps to triumph. They joined in the songs of his praise. They mingled their tribute with their love—The youthful hero who led the strife on the banks of the Monongahela now in ripened manhood leads the battles of his country. The beam of morn then glittered on his arms. Now the
The sons of Albion driven from our shores, Fingal gave up the spear of his command, and sought again the shade of peace. His friends who followed him to war, offered him the crown of the people: but he turned it from him. He wished only to reign in their hearts.
The years now rolled on in joy. Peace overshadowed the land—and shook the dews from her wings on the fields of plenty. Fingal was called by the voice of his country to be the head in her councils, and the arm of the people. The aged hero comes forth. His grey locks wave on the wind. The lightning
The land grew beneath his care. The towers of the city arose. The mountains laughed—the valley sang for joy. The thistle shook its lonely head to the breeze, nor feel beneath the foot of battle. The dogs of war ceased their howling on the heath. The hum of the bee came from the hills—Nor did the sound of the shield drown the song joyful to the ear of the hunter.
His country established upon a rock, and the close of his days drawing near, Fingal once more looked to the hall of his repose. He
Son of Columbia, why is thy countenance sad? Daughter of the wave why that tear— why is thy bosom bare—why does thy long black hair stream on the wind? Wanderer of the night why is thy step in darkness and thy voice mournful as the breeze upon the lake of Lego? Has then the Hero fallen? Is Fingal no more seen in the halls of his fathers? Tell me not Messenger of ill—I know that the chief rests with the dead. In his grey hairs he has
Weep O land of my fathers—let Fingal ever live in the heart of your love. Let the warrior's spear be broken, and his shield be hung from the tree. “Let the heavens be clothed in black,” and no light mark his course through the darkness. Winds of the north blow upon the strings of my harp! Dreams from the grave visit my slumbers! Let me see the chief of heroes in his glory. Let my song be as the song of Ossian when through the gloom he sang of the king of Morven.
Sweet be thy slumbers chief of Vernon. Thy soul was like the beam of heaven. Thine arm was like a falling tower. Thy deeds were mighty among the deeds of heroes. To thy fame thy country shall raise a stone on high to speak to future times with its grey head of moss. And when thou O stone shall moulder
In dismissing this subject the author feels a mingled and melancholy pleasure. He has as far as his feeble powers would bear him, joined in the united voice of gratitude to him who as the instrument of an almighty and merciful God defended and bought for us the freedom and possessions of our fathers. Never, he has supposed, can the ear of the public be satiated by the strains of eulogy on one whom they ought continually to love, and who merits all that can be offered. While engaged in the preceeding poem he often wished for the force and pathos of the great original whom he imitated, that he might not fall beneath the enthusiastic elevation of the hearts of his countrymen. Over the ashes of the hero of his praise he would then have strewn a worthier laurel: He would have struck a chord whose vibrations should have sounded
But though “with a zeal disproportioned to his strength” he has engaged in a subject at which he should have trembled; he hopes that as he has sincerely written from his feelings, he may communicate some faint impression of the same feelings to his readers, and excite that warm and pensive train of reflection, which they would not exchange for a different pleasure.
This is the highest hope, and highest reward which the author indulges from his poem, while he launches it on the world.
A repetition of words is necessary in expressing certain ideas peculiar to the inhabitants of the Hebrides. The shades of distinction which exist, in the original language, cannot be introduced into an english translation. The mansions or castles of the Celtic Chieftains were built in a circular form. Around the walls were the different cells in which the tribes were lodged under their proper leaders. In the centre of the building was the great and common hall in which they met to celebrate their festivities and to hold their councils. Here did the Bard strike the harp, and celebrate the deeds of the heroes. The light was admitted thro' large apertures of the outer walls; one between every two of the smaller apartments. This gave an air of awful grandeur to the great hall. In the highland language, this is termed Tubher, and the whole building Atribb. Forewant of a word sufficient to express in english the idea which this latter word conveys to the mind, it is necessary to repeat the former.
General Washington died without children. In Ossian's poem on the death of Cuchullin, he has a pathetic description of the artless innocence of the little son of the fallen Hero. “Thy spouse is left alone in her youth, the son of thy love is alone. He shall come to Bragela, and ask her why she weeps. He shall lift his eyes, and see his father's sword. “whose sword is that?” he will say: and the soul of his mother is sad.”
The bards in ancient times were the rewarders of the Hero.—Their songs of praise were considered as the highest tribute of respect—They were also the heralds of their clans; and their persons were sacred on account of their office.
It was the opinion of the Highlanders, that the souls of the deceased hovered round their living friends, and sometimes appeared to them when they were about to enter on any great undertaking.
I sit by the mossy fountains, on the top of the hills of wind. One tree is rustling above me. Dark waves roll over the heath. The lake it troubled below. The deer descend from the hill. No hunter at a distance is seen; no whistling cow-herd is nigh! It is mid-day: but all is silent. Sad are my thoughts alone.
OSSIAN.Roll on ye dark-brown years, for ye bring no joy in your course. Let the grave open to Ossian, for his strength has failed. The sons of the song are gone to rest: my voice remains like a blast, that roars lonely on a sea-sur-rounded rock, after the winds are laid.
SONGS OF SELMA.It was an opinion of the antient Highlanders, that a supernatural agent fed the streams which flowed from the hills. Early piety always attributed to the immediate influence of a Deity, that which mature philosophy discovers to be effected by the intervention of secondary causes. All rivers have their origin in the higher grounds; and especially in the Caledonian mountains, are supplied by the snows which fall deeper upon them than in the vallies. The granite tops of the hills also act as constant conductors of the moisture from the clouds which surround them. And when these causes are not sufficient to nourish the stream, nature has provided a reservoir to supply the deficiences in time of drought. Lakes are often found on the mountain tops.
General Washington in the year 1755, accompanied General Braddock in an expedition against the American Indians. He then held the rank of Colonel among the forces of Virginia, and on this occasion displayed uncommon skill and bravery. It is said, that had the English Commander followed his advice, he would have avoided the unhappy death which attended himself and many of his brave soldiers.
It is also well known, that, after the death of the chief, the address of Colonel Washington, preserved the shattered army, and gallantly conducted them from the dangers by which they were surrounded. The Author in representing this expedition, has indulged the liberty which is given to Poets— but he hopes not reprehensibly.
Aulus Didius, the Roman General.—There is here an allusion to the opening of the dramatic poem of Caractacus, which is in the true spirit of poetry.—
This is the secret centre of the isle:Here Romans pause and let the eye of wonder
Gaze on the solemn scene; behold yon oak,
How stern he frowns, and with his broad brown arms
Chills the pale plain beneath him: mark yon altar,
The dark stream brawling round its rugged base,
These cliffs, these yawning caverns, this wide circus
Skirted with unhewn stone: they awe my soul,
As if the very Genius of the place
Himself appeared, and with terrific tread
Stalk'd thro' his drear domain.
Mason.
There is here a reference to an admirable passage in the poem of Carric-Thura, which in sublimity has seldom been exceeded. The reader will pardon its insertion for its excellence.
“The flame was dim and distant; the moon hid her red face in the east. A blast came from the mountain and bore on its wings, the spirit of Loda. He came to his place in his terrors, and he shook his dusky spear. His eyes appear like flames in his dark face; and his voice is like distant thunder. Fingal advanced with the spear of his strength, and raised his voice on high—Son of night retire: call thy winds and fly: why dost thou come to my presence with thy shadowy arms? Do I fear thy gloomy form, dismal spirit of Loda? Weak is thy shield of clouds; feeble is that meteor, thy sword. The blast rolls them together; and thou thyself dost vanish. Fly from my presence, son of night! call thy winds and fly!—Dost thou force me from my place, replied the hollow voice? The people bend before me. I turn the battle, in the field of the valiant. I look on the nations and they vanish: my nostrils pour the blast of death. I come abroad on the winds; the tempests are before my face. But my dwelling is calm above the clouds, the fields of my rest are pleasant—Dwell then in my calm field, said Fingal, and let Comhal's son be forgot. Do my steps descend from my hills, into thy peaceful plains? Do I meet thee with a spear, on thy cloud, spirit of dismal Loda? Why then dost thou frown on Fingal? But thou frownest in vain: I never fled from mighty men. And shall the sons of the wind frighten the king of Morven.—Fly to thy land, replied the form: receive the wind and fly. The blasts are in the hollow of my hand: the course of the storm is mine. Fly to thy land, son of Comhal, or feel my flaming wrath. He lifted high his shadowy spear; and bent forward his terrible height. But the King advancing, drew his sword; the blade of dark- brown Luno. The gleaming path of the steel winds thro' the gloomy ghost. The form fell shapeless into air, like a column of smoke which the staff of the boy disturbs, as it rises from the half extinguished furnace.—The spirit of Loda shrieked, as rolled into himself, he rose on the wind. Inistore shook at the sound. The waves heard it on the deep: they stopped in their course with fear: the companions of Fingal started at once, and took their heavy spears. They missed the king: they rose with rage; all their arms resound.
The ancient Scots always drank from shells—These are shells of a particular kind. Their colour is white, spotted with red, and they are more transparent than the clearest horn. They have handles upon one side, by which it seems that they were destined, by nature, for the purpose of drawing water from the fountain. Hence it is that we so often meet in their old poetry, with the chief of shells, the halls of shells, the feast of shells and the peace of shells.
It was believed by the ancient Highlanders, that when a warrior fell in battle, his dogs howled continually for his loss and this opinion is justified by some instances in the present day.
General Washington in his retirement employed his time, in the study and practice of agriculture—Like Cincinnatus, on the banks of the Potowmac he followed the plough. He died with all the dignity in which he lived. He left behind him an immense estate and some valuable papers, among which is contained a journal of his life, which to his countrymen must be a precious relict.
The death of Washington | ||