Miscellaneous works, prose and poetical :: :: University of Virginia Library

Quisquis erit vitæ scribam color—
Hor.

The CRITIC.

Excluded from the sun's reviving light,
His windows clos'd to change the day to night,
The Critic sits within his room;
Therein he meditates his silent schemes
Of penetration, and of wisdom dreams,
And honors that will ever bloom.
Within his hand the venom'd pen he holds,
Th' unblemish'd paper to his pleasure folds,
And fits in gloomy thought profound;

For minutes thus, the God-like man remains,
To exercise he calls his envious brains,
And casts his eyes in awful gaze around.
Upon his paper, then his thoughts he pens,
With pleasure grinning wide his mouth extends,
And pulls his pug and crabbed nose;
Then to the ceiling heaves his rolling eyes,
And for another sage remark he plies,
And claws his head whence satire flows.
No smile of candour dwells upon his face,
No gentle pity in the wretch we trace,
Not inexperienc'd youth he'll spare;
O'er excellence he throws a transient glance,
But dwells on faults and blemishes of chance,
And to a cable magnifies a hair.
Critic! in all your terrors come array'd!
Your pen malicious, and your wit, invade!
I bid defiance to your sneers!
The candid, generous, public will excuse,
The feeble efforts of the youthful muse,
Her humble gift receive and sooth her fears.

ADDRESS TO SOLITUDE.

An ODE.

Thy haunts, O Solitude! I love to rove,
Along thy lawns, beneath thy steady grove;
Among thy bowers to rear the humble cot,
And soft indulge my bosom's secret thought:
There, musing, ponder on the tale of woe,
And bid the tear of duteous sorrow flow.
As o'er the flow'ry dales I stray along
I'd catch the music of thy murm'ring streams.
I'd listen to thy songster's plaintive song
Which lulls the mind in fancy's fairy dreams;
The voice of noisy man not there is found,
The clam'rous discord of the town not there;
None but a rural and melodious sound,
In mournful music warbles thro' the air.
The brownish Thrush from yonder spray
Tunes his clear melifluous lay,
While dim evening spreads her veil
Philomela resumes her tale.
Quiv'ring flows the strain along,
Attentive sorrow lifts the song;
The sad enthusiast lends her ears,
Compos'd reflection calls her tears;

Dull melancholy soothes the wound
And glimm'ring visions hover round.
A dreary gloom surrounds the woodland plain,
Music and silence hold their tranquil reign;
A low'ring darkness wraps the rural scene,
The moon from high, reflects her ray serene.
Her trembling beams break thro' the spreading trees,
While parting moves the ev'ning's sighing breeze.
Now let me seek O Solitude thy shade!
A son of sorrow, and a son of woe!
To mourn the ravages which death hath made,
And to humanity a tear bestow.—
Delusive objects strike my sorrowing eyes,
Form'd by fair Luna's clear reflective light
Behind the bushes awful forms arise,
And fleeting phantoms glide before the sight,
Come, O gloomy solitary shade!
Thy vot'ry's anguish'd breast pervade—
Where nourish'd reigns the weeping thought
And mourns humanity's appointed lot;
Clothe all thy scenes in sorrow's dress,
Thy murm'ring streams let grief express;
Let visions thro' the thicket stray,
And superstition bend its way—

Let all thy plains congenially impart
And sigh responsive to a bleeding heart.

MELANCHOLY.

An ODE.

On yonder barren isle in dreary cells,
The dread enchantress, Melancholy, dwells,
And her dark draught prepares;
Sad, hollow accents from her cave resound,
A glimm'ring taper throws its rays around,
And lights the frightful snares.
Within the cell a misty stream appears,
Swell'd with humanity's afflicted tears,
Which murm'ring seems to flow;
O'er mossy rocks its trick'ling course it bends,
Ghosts stand and gaze when foaming it descend,
And raise shrill shrieks of woe.
Upon the ground, th' enchantress sits reclin'd,
Around the cave howls the loud sighing wind,
A snake beside her lies,
Loose and disordered is her shaggy head,
A spotted mantle round her limbs is spread,
Deep stain'd with various dyes.

Upon its hinge hoarse moves the iron door,
Sad, sullen sounds rise from the echoing floor,
Sweet music to her ear.
Sudden she starts from her dim aged seat,
Sends a shrill scream which echoes wild repeat,
Which phantoms startling hear.
Around the cell her crimson eyes she throws,
A dreary silence spreads its still repose,
No whisp'ring zephyr blows:
Save the hard drawing of the hag's foul breath,
Bad as the vapours of destroying death;
And the slow stream which flows.
She distant, here, from human eye remains,
No mortal wanders o'er her pensive plains,
Here dusky Raven's scream;
Here glimm'ring ghosts glide solemnly along,
Who pausing list the Raven's dolesome song,
And gaze on Luna's beam.
Before the cell a cypress' branches spread,
The weeping-willow hangs its sorrowing head,
Which form a dreary scene:
Behind steep rocks with tow'ring aspect rise,
And strike an awe on the astonish'd eyes;
On distant shores survey'd.

When Cynthia on the plains her shadow throws,
When Luna and the twinkling planet glows,
And light the Gothic scene;
Close round her limbs the fairy wraps her robe,
She frightful wanders from her dark abode,
And dimly stalks the green.

The PARSON.

AN ELEGY.

Chill blew drear autumn's sadly sighing gale,
The sun declining shed a feeble light
O'er the brown landscape and the faded vale,
And shone reflective from the mountain's height.
Musing, I wander'd Hudson's lofty steep,
The loud wave sent its hoarse and sullen roar;
The rapid wild-fowl skim'd the howling deep
And flung its screamings to the lonely shore.

The scene infus'd a melancholy glow
And lull'd to sorrow every chearful thought,
Tun'd the dull passions to the tale of woe
And serious ponder'd Human Nature's lot.
While in this frame with folded arms I stray'd
With thoughtful step and steady downcast eye,
I heard a voice flow plaintive o'er the glade,
Which often paus'd to heave a sorrowing sigh.
List'ning I stood and cast my eyes around,
To where the accents of affliction rose:
There I beheld, stretch'd on the dewy ground,
A mourning stranger clad in raven clothes:
His aspect told the sorrows of his mind;
His cheeks were pale, in anguish roll'd his eye;
His short locks trembled at the northern wind
Which wip'd his tears and sorrowful flew by.
His dusty coat had seen its youthful years,
His friendly Greeks let thro' his pious knees,
His elbow thro' his reverend sleeve appears
And kiss'd, tho' coldly, autumn's searching breeze
Upon his head in majesty uprose,
A hat! which brav'd the fury of the storm,
His slouching boots a pair of legs disclose,
Useful supporters, but devoid of form.
Yet in this garb his melancholy face

Shone with a lustre dignified and great;
There flow'd a ray of sweet celestial grace
Which brav'd chill poverty and adverse fate.
Just as I turn'd and took this transient view
Of th' appearance of this sorrowing man,
These mournful accents from his lips he threw
More sad than music his slow murmurs ran.
“Hard is the solitary parson's lot:
“Wrapt in the glooms of poverty and care:
“Soon are his labours by his flock forgot;
“No fond remembrance of his works they bear.
“Ingratitude his anxious pain repays—
“His zeal and fervour in religion's cause,
“Which warn'd the wanderer of his evil ways,
“And bid reflection o'er his errors pause.
“Reduc'd by sorrow and lung-breaking zeal,
“When the cold tomb receives his last remains
“Short is affliction, which their bosoms feel
“Feebly is heard their melancholy strains.
“His midnight lamp he solitary trims,
“Turns the worn leaves of John and Matthew o'er,
“Then gives to sleep his sedentary limbs
“And tunes the musically nasal snore.
“When sabbath day appears with low'ring sky

“Around his active throat he twines his band,
“Bids to the wind his sacred mantle fly,
“And draws his glove half finger'd on his hand.
“When he ascends the pulpit's holy flight
“And rears his breast above the desk to view,
“Beneath, his children meet his dolesome sight
“With sunday garments, grinning in the pew.
“Full pleas'd to see papa exalted high,
“His numerous cherubs with fond rapture gaze;
“He, hapless creature! heaves a deadly sigh,
“And tunes his organs to his maker's praise.
“To stop their cries, he scarce has food and meat,
“And scarce a robe to screen them from the cold,
“Yet like the great these beings still must eat,
“And still like them in some warm garb be roll'd.
“All this my lot! poor Classic's told his pain;
“And snatch'd from time a momentary ease,
“It lulls the breast to pour unheard its strain;
“Where nought responds but Hudson and the breeze.
“Where yon large city rears its lofty spires,
“There stands my church, there live my tender flocks:

“The sick'ning view my anguish'd bosom fires,
“And thrills my passions with electric shocks.
“More could I say, but ah! I'll not repine,
“Let poverty's keen blasts sweep sad along;
“The time will come when bright'ning beams will shine,
“When Classic shall forget his mournful song.”
Here the sad stranger ceas'd his lonely moan,
To sympathy I gave the trembling tear;
For ah! the bard, a rueful parson's son,
Should weep for one so kindred and so dear.
Still unperceiv'd I left the dreary scene
And sought a parent's hospitable cot,
Where the kind smiles of plenty yet are seen,
Not such like Classic yet his humble lot.
O fair divinity, celestal maid,
Once thy bright charms enrapturing struck mine eyes;
Once to my breast I prest thy promis'd aid
But ah, look! yonder wretched Classic lies.

1st October, 1794.

ELIZA.

A PASTORAL SONG.

While his sheep play cheerful around,
And crop the fresh grass off the plain,
The notes of soft music resound,
The notes of young Marcus the swain:—
To Eliza he tunes his sweet voice,
In grace and in beauty array'd,
The vallies responsive rejoice,
While silence and stillness pervade.

On the bank of yon smooth gliding brook,
With aspect in sweetness serene,
As she gracefully lean'd on her crook,
The lovely Eliza I've seen:
While pensive the flood she surveyed,
Which stole in soft murmurs along,
Unnotic'd I lay in the shade,
While the birds tun'd their evening song.

Eliza! ah, who can describe?
Who her beauty and charms can unfold?
Who can paint great Sol in his pride,
When he mounts his bright chariot of gold?

Her curling and beautiful hair
O'er her back hung gracefully down;
Like the snow her loose garments were fair—
There grace and simplicity's found.

Eliza I've oft seen before,
Tho' nought but our eyes have yet spoke;
Her in silence I calmly adore,
For her now the muse I revoke:
My bosom now points to the day,
When I to this maid shall be known,
When we'll pass the swift hours away,
When my passion for her I may own.

With his tinges of beautiful hue
The sun is now gilding the sky,
All nature is charming to view,
The scene draws the heart's pensive sigh.—
Come my sheep return to your fold,
While your shepherd points the known way,
Who covets no honour nor gold,
The crook, not the sceptre, to sway.

Thus Marcus indulged the soft strains,
While graceful reclin'd in a shade,

I thoughtfully rambling the plains,
Directed my steps where he lay'd.
Congenial in sorrow and thought,
His musical notes struck my ear;
I pensive survey'd the fond spot,
And dropt to Eliza a tear.

FREEDOM.

A SONG.

Ye statesmen and heroes, and patriot train,
Who dwell in Columbia's thrice happy plain,
Where the Goddess of Freedom her smiles sweet extends,
And peace in white vestments from Heaven descends;

O tune to fair Freedom your musical lays;
Let the vallies loud echo responsive your praise;
Let the song of the heart and of rapture arise,
And, wafted by zephyrs, ascend to the skies.

Ye youths and fair maids, who trip graceful along,
O swell with your voices Columbia's glad song,
Where genius and beauty increasing prevail,
And innocence rambles the shadowy vale.

O tune to fair Freedom, &c.

Ye groves with your songsters, O join the fond strain,
Ye slow plaintive murmurs which float o'er the plain,
Let Hudson majestic the bass-chord resound,
And streams of the hills throw their warblings around.

O tune to fair Freedom, &c.

With pride on her brow, once Britain arose,
And sent forth her legions to damp our repose;
Unfurl'd her dread banners in these smiling lands,
And drew her stain'd sword to enforce her commands.

O tune to fair Freedom, &c.

But Liberty here erected her throne,
In garments celestial the bright Goddess shone;

From Vernon's retreat, and contemplative shade,
She led forth her hero, in terror arrayed.

O tune to fair Freedom, &c.

The warrior's presence each bosom inspir'd,
Lull'd danger in peace, and to enterprize fir'd;
The blood-thirsty Britain degradingly fled,
And ever-green laurels encircled his head.

O tune to fair Freedom your musical lays;
Let the vallies loud echo responsive your praise;
Let the song of the heart and of rapture arise,
And, wafted by zephyrs, ascend to the skies.

THE POET.

An Elegy.

Late has the bard survey'd with kindred sigh,
A solitary parson's hapless plight;
Late has the tear roll'd from my trembling eye,
To mourn with me the melancholy sight.

The tale of woe shall still the strain prolong.
The voice of sorrow wake the quiv'ring string,
A poet's woes shall be the plaintive song;
Waft them fair sorrow on your murmuring wing.

The town-clock tolls, the solemn midnight hour,
Nor moon, nor planet trembles in the sky,
The weeping clouds distil a pattering shower,
The fleeting south wind wings its pitying sigh.

The thoughtless mortal sinks in peaceful rest,
A happy stranger to the frown of woes;
The hand of Fortune lulls his quiet breast,
Her downy mantle o'er his slumber throws.

In yon lone chamber, where a feeble light
From the sad window's broken front appears,

Thro' which the tempest pours its howling flight,
And the fond shower its sympathizing tears—

A poet makes his solitary stay,
And courts the Muse's sadly pleasing smiles,
Who now at midnight tunes his gloomy lay,
Whose soothing music all his care beguiles.

Musing he sits upon a limping chair,
And on his hand reclines his thoughtful head;
His rolling eye-balls on the cieling stare,
And a slow tribute to reflection shed.

His ragged floor, neglected papers spread,
Some dusty books display their grief-worn forms,
There Richard Blackmore rears his epic head,
And Richard Savage, dauntless bard of storms.

Sad Otway, Dryden, Butler, Swift, arise,
Sweet Pope, smooth Thompson, Nature's fav'rite son,
There youthful Chatterton salutes the eyes,
And he who Rome's Augustin laurels won.

His standish on his tott'ring desk remains,
Whence upward rises one sage lonely pen,

In which the Muses pour their thrilling strains,
And move the passions of unfeeling men.

His glimmering taper casts its rays around,
And trembles on the garret's laughing walls,
A crippled watch faint chimes a ticking sound,
And DREAMER SCRIPTOR to his straw-bed calls.

The hour of one the city-watchmen cry,
But Scriptor heedless his fond task pursues;
The roaring tempest howls along the sky,
But Scriptor heeds nought, but the whispering Muse.

Poor rhiming Scriptor's wretched lot I know,
Oft have I seen him steal the street along,
His tattered garments told the man of woe,
The son of poverty, the son of song.

He mov'd with eye dejected on the ground,
His tuneful mouth drawn in a gloomy grin,
Not at each step the silver's jingling sound,
Sung goodly ditties from his poke within.

But singing papers peep'd thro' spacious holes,
And caught the air and Sol's declining ray;
There elegies and songs lay snug in folds,
Heroic scraps, each species made their stay.

I mark'd the colour of his precious coat,
Green it was once, but now 'tis yellow brown,
His hairs behind loose and disordered float,
And in thin locks hung sorrowfully down.

Sweet sorrow! Scriptor's woes no more repine,
Hurt not the feelings of poor virtuous men.
His fate ah! youthful bard may still be thine!
Flee the fond strain, and burn thy humble pen.

Perhaps like him unfriended and unknown,
In poverty and want, e'er long thou'lt roam;
Thy sweet deluded hopes too soon be flown,
And a lone garret be thy dolesome home.

Ah! dreadful thought; thou fav'rite strain adieu!
All the kind pleasure which thy music lends,
Poor woeful Scriptor rises to my view,
And his lone footsteps to yon thicket bends.

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LEANDER,

Or the Sorrows of Reflection, an Elegy.

[_]

Leander is an old gentleman possessed of a large estate; Mira is his only child of whom he is passionately fond; Henry a young gentleman of great beauty and amiable disposition, falls in love with Mira; she returns his passion with equal ardour; her father Leander discovers their fondness for each other, and disapproves of it; he forbids Henry the house, and to

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think more of his daughter. The old father, when he sees the effect which Henry's absence has upon his daughter, repents of his conduct but too late. Mira dies; Leander is seized with the greatest affliction; his memory recalls to his view his former cruelty. He is here represented reclining beneath an aged oak, which grew upon the bank of the Hudson, and retracing his sorrows.

I.

Serene the eve, the sun's withdrawn his light,
Luna has risen with her twinkling train,
The whirring bar, now wheels his rapid flight,
Hush'd is the breeze that whisper'd o'er the plain.

II.

Hush'd is the warblings of the tuneful grove,
The chearful birds, have sought their downy nest,
Sad sorrow takes her lone retired rove,
To soothe the anguish of the pensive breast.

III.

Lo! from yon spacious building's porch descends,
The old Leander, with his locks of snow,
His tottering steps toward yon bank he bends,
Where spacious Hudson murm'ring glides below.

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IV.

See now the verdant, well known bank he gains,
And slowly leans beneath an aged oak,
While heavy sighs breath forth his inward pains,
Thus the old Sire in plaintive accents spoke.

V.

Ah! poor old man, no more shall PLEASURE glow,
Or seek abode within thy anguish'd mind,
She'll lend no smile to soothe the pangs of woe,
Still will REFLECTION cast her looks behind.

VI.

Still will she trace long past, and recent scenes,
And paint the dread events before my view,
Still will she haunt me in my midnight dreams,
And poor Leander ever will pursue.

VII.

No more shall music sound the note of joy,
No more shall rural sports their pleasure give,
No more shall Mira my pleas'd thoughts employ,
And bid her cruel wretched father live.

VIII.

Ceas'd is that voice, which once was Music's sound,

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No more on me its soft vibration flows,
Clos'd is that eye, which shed fond joy around,
Stop'd is that breath, sweet as the breeze which blows.

IX.

Yonder my Mira rests her slumb'ring head,
Where grow those gloomy melancholy trees,
They o'er her grave an awful shadow spread,
And gently quiver with the passing breeze.

X.

'Twas you my Mira sooth'd declining years,
'Twas you that bid joy sparkle in my eye,
That wip'd the widow's and the orphan's tears,
and eas'd the bosom of the heaving sigh.

XI.

And O how lovely, how divinely fair
Was the soft tincture of thy charming face,
In floating ringlets wav'd thy auburn hair,
Thy form was beauty, polish'd into grace.

XII.

I thought my Mira, you these eyes would close,
And drop a tear upon my aged tomb,
That o'er my grave, you'd lead the briery rose,
And plant the willow, with its pensive gloom.

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XIII.

But ah! these hopes for ever now are fled,
And who but I, a cruel wretch to blame,
Pity no more thy gentle sorrow shed?
'Twas I that sported with the lover's flame.

XIV.

The graceful Henry in the pride of youth
Beheld my Mira, with a rising sigh,
His form was noble, and his breast was truth,
A liquid light'ning darted from his eye.

XV.

The beauteous maid his tender flame return'd,
Love in each breast assum'd its genial reign,
Pure and sincere, their gentle passions burn'd,
Rambling together, oft they trip'd the plain.

XVI.

Here oft beneath this spreading tree they've stood,
The distant prospects all around survey'd,
They've view'd the smoothness of the passing flood,
And sought the whisp'ring and the cooling shade.

XVII.

Oft they have listen'd to the joyful song,
While pleasure ting'd each face with rosy hues,

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Oft in the Eve, the vales they've rov'd along
When Nature, slow distil'd her moist'ning dews.

XVIII.

Devoid of art, and of deceitful guile
Of all the triflings of the haughty maid.
To each fond face they lent the pleasing smile,
No thoughts of sorrow their sooth'd breasts invade.

XIX.

I saw their love, with anger, and with pain,
For gold nor fortune was her Henry's lot,
He join'd not in their routs, the giddy train,
But peace and plenty crown'd his humble cot.

XX.

I bade the modest youth with furious voice,
To flee my house, and shun fair Mira's face;
No more within her cheering smiles rejoice,
Nor seek her blooming and her soft embrace.

XXI.

With downcast eyes he hears my dread commands,
The roses flee his round and manly cheek,
No word he says, but in sad anguish stands,
Then slow retires, but ne'er attempts to speak.

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XXII.

He casts behind a ling'ring parting view,
The throbbing, bursting sigh his bosom heaves,
At length his steps a winding path pursue,
He sinks from sight behind those spreading trees.

XXIII.

No gentle pity my hard bosom feels
For wretched Henry's parting pangs and grief,
No gentle wish upon my bosom steals
To ease his suff'ring, and afford relief.

XXIV.

But ah! how soon did I repent the deed
When past, and gone, to be recall'd too late?
How did my breast for mourning Mira bleed,
How did I curse Leander's hapless fate?

XXV.

The graceful Henry now no more return'd,
To cheer and bless his lovely Mira's mind,
Drooping in silence, her fond passion burn'd,
For her lov'd youth in solitude she pin'd.

XXVI.

No more in smiles her beauteous face she dress'd,
But pensive glooms, now occupied their place,

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No more when I the lively maid address'd,
Shone the soft lustre of her charming face.

XXVII.

Always she strove to shun my anxious sight,
Often she wander'd o'er the flow'ry vale;
Often she sought the doleful shades of night
To pour unheard, her melancholy tale.

XXVIII.

She mourns her Henry cloth'd in sable weeds,
Gradual the flame her lovely form consumes;
No tears from her dim languid eye proceeds,
No more sweet freshness on her aspect blooms.

XXIX.

At last she sunk within the shades of death
Which still'd the tumult of her anguish'd breast,
Her Henry, quiver'd on her dying breath,
His name flew with her to the shades of death.

XXX.

Of youthful Henry I have heard no more,
Perhaps he's also sought the silent grave,
Cease flowing Hudson! cease your murm'ring roar!
Perhaps he's buried in your cruel wave.

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XXXI.

There no more angry words, disdainful pride,
Will reach thy modest and attentive ear,
No more I'll snatch thee from thy blooming bride,
Or call upon thy cheek the trembling tear.

XXXII.

Leander ceas'd; and feebly from his seat
With faultring, and with trembling limbs arose,
Towards his dome, he bends his ploading feet,
Reflection still, re-numerates his woes.

DELIA,

A PASTORAL.

Why Delia those sorrowful tears?
Which o'er thy fair aspect descend—
Why joy's chearful glow disappears?
And bestows no fond smile on a friend—
Can the fondness of friendship delight?
Thy sensible bosom no more—
Can the bloom of kind nature excite?
No more her fair scenes to explore—

Your sheep miss their sheperdess' hand,
The mourners have wander'd astray;
They hear not your gentle command,
Nor sportively lift to your lay—

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By the banks of the murm'ring brook,
In the verdure of op'ning lawns
No more are they led by your crook—
When the morn in serenity dawns.

The voice of glad concord is mute,
And sunk in grief's sorrowful strain—
Unstrung is the musical lute,
Which lull'd with its accents the plain.
Simplicity blended with grace
Is still my fair Delia thy guest,
But fled is the bloom of your face
Which health had so lovely imprest.

The flowers which bloom'd in the field,
Around your soft bosom you spread—
But now to dull sorrow you yield,
And the cyress encircles your head.—
The vales and the shadowy grove
Were once gentle maid thy delight;
But now with sad fondness you rove
When the landscape is folded in night.

Indulge not too much gloomy thought
My Delia indulge not your sighs,
Reflect on humanity's lot,
And dry the warm tears from your eyes.

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Compare with another your grief?
The children of anguish and woe,
Whom Hope e'en refuses relief,
And deigns not her smiles to bestow.

THE AMERICAN CAPTIVE.

An Elegy.

[I.]

With slow and solemn sound the tow'r-clock tolls,
Its mournful cadence strikes upon my ears,
Tells in sad murmurs, how time onward rolls,
And adds its moments to my sorrowing years.

II.

To grief and melancholy thought resign'd,
Almerius courts dread midnight's horrid gloom,
He hails its shades congenial with his mind,
And mourns neglected his unhappy doom.

III.

Far from the soothing accents of a friend,
Where pity not one tear for misery sheds,
Where not humanity a smile will lend,
But grief unfolding her dark mantle spreads;

IV.

Far from the voice of Julia and of love,
For me soft sympathy has ceas'd to flow;

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No more those lips with winning accents move,
And with their sweetness sooth the pang of woe.

V.

How solemn and how grand, the midnight scene,
The moon's now hid beneath a low'ring cloud;
Now glimmering from on high she shines serene,
And brighten'd breaks forth from the blacken'd shroud.

VI.

She casts her beams o'er Nature's silent plains,
And in this tower emits a trembling ray,
Which lights the dungeon where a wretch remains,
To drear confinement an unhappy prey.

VII.

Now through the grates soft moves a gentle breeze,
Whose fragrant coolness fans my panting breast;
Abroad I hear the rustling of the trees,
And the shrill screaming of the midnight guest.

VIII.

I hear the lonely songster of the grove
In warbling accents pour its pensive song;
The song of sorrow and the song of love,
Which floating zephyrs gently waft along.

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IX.

Far distant hence I hear the waters sound,
Which foaming tumbles from the rocky hills,
Rising it throws its plaintive murmur round,
And all the air with fairy music fills.

X.

Through nights sad gloom the watchful mastiff's cries
With grating discord drown the soothing strains,
When list'ning every noise, he distant spies
Some awful phantom stalking o'er the plains.

XI.

What horrors hover in these chilly walls!
A dismal dread now damps my grief-worn heart;
Methinks some ghost with hollow screaming calls,
And groans and sighs the neighbouring cells impart.

XII.

Ah! now a ghastly, frightful form appears,
And seems to whisper through the iron grates;
Slow o'er its haggard face roll fearful tears,
And wild despair its fiery eye dilates.

XIII.

The grisly hairs stand stiff upon its head,
Within its hand a bloody knife it holds;

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Around its limbs a filthy garb is spread,
Which, stain'd with gore, before the gale unfolds.

XIV.

Now with the shadows of the night 'tis fled,
And left a pris'ner terrified with fear,
Ah! twas the spectre of some murder'd dead—
A sufferer, a Columbian—names so dear.

XV.

Hail to Columbia's happy cultur'd fields!
Hail to her waving and her cooling shade!
There her blest sons enjoy what nature yields,
And freedom's charms the extended realm pervade.

XVI.

There the glad songs of peace and joy prevail;
No tyrant's hand inflicts inhuman woes;
Tranquil the swain roves through the shady vale,
And courts, fatigu'd, the slumbers of repose.

XVII.

Once I, Columbia, dwelt upon thy shore,
And the glad strains of joy and freedom join'd,
To the rough dangers of the ocean wore,
And steer'd the stately ship with breast resign'd.

XVIII.

There my fond father and my mother live,
And sorrowing mourn their son's unhappy lot;

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Thousands for ransom cheerfully they'd give—
But poverty surrounds their weeping cot.

XIX.

'Twas I supported their declining years,
Reliev'd their breasts of poverty and care—
That from their cheeks dispell'd affliction's tears,
And rais'd their hopes to pleasure from despair.

XX.

There lovely Julia sorrowful remains,
Fair as the beauty of the dawning morn:
Weeping she rambles o'er congenial plains,
While the soft graces all her steps adorn.

XXI.

Can I forget the tender last embrace,
Those words which zephyrs on their fragrance bore;
The expressive sorrow of that charming face,
When last we parted to embrace no more?

XXII.

We haul'd the anchor from its dark abode,
Before the winds we spread the swelling sails;
We on the billows of the ocean rode,
And swiftly mov'd before propitious gales.

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XXIII.

An Algerine corsair to our fight appear'd,
Ploughing the waves, the sons of prey drew nigh;
Upon the mast the bloody flag was rear'd,
And death terrific glimmer'd in each eye.

XXIV.

Howling approach'd the hell-hounds of Algiers,
The dreadful falchion glitter'd in each hand;
The horrid prow its iron grapple rears,
The thundering captain issues his command.

XXV.

The vigour of a freeman's arm was vain,
In vain man's sacred rights and country plead;
Around our limbs they fold the galling chain—
See O my country! your brave freemen bleed!

XXVI.

Towards Algiers they bend their watery way,
Whose warlike turrets beaming from on high,
Strike in the gloomy soul a sick'ning ray,
And call a tear upon the sorrowing eye.

XXVII.

Ceas'd is the pleasure of a once gay breast,
Far fly my dungeon comfort and repose;
By labour and by torturing fiends oppress'd,
I find no ease but what frail hope bestows.

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XXVIII.

Ah! cruel country! can my groans and pain
Make no impression on thy callous heart?
Does not the glow of sympathy remain?
Does not humanity its sigh impart?

XXIX.

Art thou the land where freedom rears her throne,
Where conquer'd Washington, where Warren bled,
Where patriot virtue, and where valor shone,
And where oppression bow'd her guilt stain'd head.

XXX.

Adieu! Columbia, to thy fertile shore—
Adieu! those joys which give to life its charm,
Within these walls Almerius must deplore
The sleeping vigour of his country's arm.

MARY's TOMB,

A Sonnet.

[I.]

What mournful noise resounds from yonder grove?
The grove where Mary slumbers in her tomb;

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What sigh is that, what plaintive voice of love?
Which flings its sorrow to the midnight gloom—

II.

What figure's that, which glimmers through the trees?
And drooping bends, upon the flowery green,
Whose locks wave gently with the fanning breeze,
And anguish'd views the sad surrounding scene.

III.

'Tis mourning Belville weeping o'er the urn
Where mould'ring in the dust his Mary lies,
Whom hope had sooth'd with smiles at his return,
But now deluding, shuns his sorrowing eyes.

IV.

His sad remembrance paints the lovely maid,
Their former love, their happiness and joy,
When she in beauty and in health array'd,
Was the sole object of his mind's employ.

V.

When last he parted from her soft embrace
To seek the dangers of the ocean's swell;
When the tears trickled o'er her gentle face,
As he the beauteous mourner, bade farewell.

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VI.

Returning; she has fled his anxious arms,
And sought the icy fetters of the tomb,
No more her Belville views her blooming charms,
But cloth'd in sorrow, sighs his hapless doom

VII.

O'er the fair maid, ye trees your verdure wave,
Protect her with your wide and cooling shade,
Softly ye dews distill upon her grave,
Where Belville's tears the debt of sorrow paid.

ELEGY.

Supposed TO HAVE BEEN DELIVERED BY Chatterton, JUST BEFORE HIS DEATH, AFTER HE HAD TAKEN A POTION OF ARSENIC.

[_]

Scene lies in his room—Pieces of manuscripts which he had torn are scattered about the floor, and the dreadful phial which contained the poison standing on the table.—After having stood for a considerable time in a very thoughtful posture, he at length speaks—

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I.

Ah! fond deceiver Hope, thy reign is o'er,
No more shall Chatterton be sooth'd by thee,
Soon will death waft him from this hated shore,
And launch a wretch in dread eternity.

II.

Eternity ! thou awful startling name!
I tremble and shrink back at inward thought,
How can I now a God's protection claim?
O hapless youth what is thy destin'd lot?

III.

But what is there on earth that bids me live?
Fortune on me has always look'd with guile;
To Chatterton her gifts, she scorns to give
No friend but pity ever lent a smile.

IV.

On others she has pour'd her plenteous store,
More than is needful for frail life's support,
While I for food in silence must deplore,
Or the compassion of the haughty court.

V.

Shall Chatterton, e'er thus himself demean?
One who has claim'd Britannia's sons applause,

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Hath he not feelings both acute and keen?
Which rise repugnant, to th' Almighty's laws.

VI.

Nature hath call'd, I quickly have obey'd,
Unable to support Affliction's load,
Life's glim'ring taper now begins to fade,
Soon will I reach the awful grave's abode.

VII.

The soft poetic note will cease to flow
From Chatterton's, or Rowley's pen,
No more he'll tune the youthful lyre to woe,
No more he'll seek a charitable friend.

VIII.

No more he'll mourn on earth his hapless fate,
No more he'll claim the poet's scant reward,
No more he'll be dependent on the great,
Or bow submissive to a haughty Lord.

IX.

To those who've hurt the feelings of his mind,
Poor Chatterton doth now forgiveness lend,
All that he asks and all he would remind,
Let those who've injur'd, now lament his end.

X.

An author's lot is poverty and pain,
The son of disappointment, anguish, grief—

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Hope still retaining its deceitful reign,
Soothes his sad soul with prospects of relief.

XI.

But Ah! Those prospects only but appear
And vanish from the anxious eager eye—
In vain affliction drops the briny tear,
In vain the bosom heaves the pensive sigh.

XII.

O my fond mother, how thy tender breast
Will shrink with anguish at the deed I've done;
Oft have you lull'd me when by woe oppress'd,
Oft have you pray'd for blessing on your son.

XIII.

How will you cast to Heaven your streaming eyes,
And tear your tresses and your flowing hair;
Your bursting bosom scarce will hold your sighs,
And human reason scarce support despair.

XIV.

And thou my sister, whose soft feeling glows
For Chatterton with tenderness and love,
Whose sorrow beats congenial with my woes,
How will the news thy gentle passions move.

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XV.

But O! the horrid crimson deed is done,
In vain, your throbbing sighs and starting tears—
Soon will the thread of human life be spun,
Now to my view eternity appears.

XVI.

Your son, your brother, at his latest breath,
With pensive gratitude remembers you;
Fond thought retains you, as he sinks in death
And bids you both eternally adieu.

XVII.

The ev'ning comes to close the solemn scene,
The sun now sets in awfulness and gloom;
Slow glides the deep, in blue expanse serene,
The weeping willow slumbers o'er my tomb.

XVIII.

The dusky raven sends its mournful cry,
The distant thunder repercussive roars,
The fading light faint glimmers on my eye,
Now sable night his frightful curtain low'rs.

XIX.

Silence now holds all nature calm and still,
Ah! there the death-bell sends its hollow toll,
Here death now stalks, to obey the sov'reign will,
To him I now resign my fleeting soul.

Eternity thou awful startling thought.—
Addison.

159

THE DISCOVERY OF TOBACCO,

A Poem.

While some in swelling and in pompous strain,
The charms of freedom and man's rights maintain;
And with discernful scrutinizing glance,

160

Proclaim the glory of the sons of France:
Foretel of empires and of kings the fall,
And when fair freedom shall enlighten all—

While some delight to swell the heroes fame,
Proclaim his virtues, and his honor'd name:
The glorious death the patriot-warrior found,
And lift the mantle from his bleeding wound;
With pomp to lead th' astonish'd heaver o'er,
The plains of Gallia stain'd with human gore;

Be it my task to sing Virginia's plant,
Its virtuous juice, its various use descant,
I choose a theme of many deeds the source,
Which soothes the mind by its assuaging force.
Here thought sublime pours not its course along,
Or flows with grandeur Homer's epic song;

Verse sweet and smooth, here bears no soothing sway,
Nor steals the music of a Barlow's lay.
But cloth'd in simple, or in any dress,
Tobacco bids her bard, his thoughts express;
To hold her up, before the public eyes,
Not cloth'd in purple, but without disguise;

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For excellence needs not the aid of art
To win the friendship of the virtuous heart.
Segar! whose fragrant breath I now obtain,
O smile propitious on your poet's strain;
Who with red nose dost hover o'er my pen,
And whose kind essence from my mouth I send,

Do not to me your genial aid refuse,
But help the lisping of your youthful Muse.
Long have we join'd in friendship's tender flame,
Often in solitude your charms I claim.
Come, plodding from your ploughs, ye healthy swains,
While in your jaws the pigtail still remains,

Come squirting from your mouths the fluent juice,
Your quids still vigorous for their pliant use,
Come, help your bard to sing tobacco's praise,
And lead simplicity to deck his lays.
Ye band of snuffers with your boxes come,
The pinch just ready in each broad-fac'd thumb,

Strew scented snuff the Muse's path along,
And with your presence animate the song;

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The poet, tho' a stranger to your arts,
Knows the indulgence which your sex imparts.
Lastly, ye smokers, shew your honest face,
With tender friendship meet the wish'd embrace;

Ye who in pipes or in Segars delight,
With smiles inspire, while I your poet write,
With pipes well lighted puff your scent around,
And with your wit make laughters joyful sound.
The atmosphere with circling clouds o'erspread,
Whose fragrant odours play around my head.

Hail Christopher, whom genius bid explore
This happy land, this far extended shore,
Where then unfound by the decrees of taste,
Tobacco flourish'd in its primal state.
The precious plant with greenish hue serene,
Here breath'd its fragrance, here it blush'd unseen.

Untaught by art, it rear'd its goodly head,
And wide its foliage to the sun beams spread.

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But when the swelling and propitious breeze.
Brought to these climes the sons of taste and ease;
When in the vale they rear'd the humble cot,
And in the cooling shades their cares forgot.

Happy they wander'd o'er the cultur'd plain,
And thought no more of Britain's cruel reign;
Their joyful songs re'echo'd from the grove,
And pensive warbled the soft note of love.
The bleating flocks in numbers thriving laid,
Along the brooks, beneath the spreading shade.

Tobacco then, man's curious optics drew,
Who silent ponder'd at the curious view;
Grand to his sight its beauteous form it rear'd,
Inviting to the taste the plant appear'd.
It's gentle fragrance rising sought his nose,
And soothing seem'd to whisper soft repose.
Led by the inclination's firm commands,
It's leaves he pluck'd by enterprising hands,
In closer view, then he the leaf survey'd,
And to his curious mouth the thing convey'd.

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A while with wonder, and with fear he stood
In thoughtful silence and fix'd eyes he chew'd.
But soon the mouthful from his jaws he threw,
And pale with fear swift o'er the vallies flew,
He bent his eager way o'er hills thro' woods,
And headlong plung'd into the swelling floods.

But virtue always hath attractive charms,
And draws admirers to her lovely arms;
Sometimes at first her gentle voice they spurn,
But passion prompts the wanderer's return.
Thus fair tobacco first neglected lay,
'Till reason bid unruly man obey,

With friendly kindness taught him what to eat
That dry'd tobacco was both good and sweet;
Indulgent Nature spread it o'er the plain
To comfort man and soothe the wretch's pain—
For this tobacco lends its smiling bloom,
Dispels dull sorrow, and dark anguish's gloom:

It is adapted both to mouth and nose,
And tickles fancy while it wafts repose;
It gives to genius persevering glow,
And bids with smoothness strains poetic flow.

165

It calms the aged in declining years,
And with soft friendship dries his falling tears.

When these to man instructive reason taught,
Soon from the fields the sav'ry plant was brought,
Before the sun were spread its broken leaves,
No more to wave before the fanning breeze,
The powerful rays its pristine dye subdue,
From green it changes its once lively hue.

Soon as the sun, the friendly foilage dries
Its darkish yellow strikes the gazing eyes.
Now man collects it in his cleanly stores,
Its virtuous essence and its use explores—
He forms it into portions for the jaws,
And with fond pleasure on the substance chews.

Others to snuff the well dry'd leaves transpose,
And feed with friendship the perceptive nose;
Others to smoke the changing plant thought best,
And feel soft wonders stealing on the breast;
Now every bosom glows with secret joys,
And good tobacco every thought employs—

166

Exulting high they raise the joyful song,
While thankful praises the loud strains prolong.
This plant e'er since has held its peaceful reign;
And still remains the soothing friend of pain;
Rapine and passion shun tobacco's face,
But virtue seeks its kind and sweet embrace.

It calms the tumult of the angry soul,
Ev'n sometimes reason stoops to its controul .
“The man who not in pouch tobacco keeps,
“Nor hath not pipes laid up in num'rous heaps;
“Is led by rapine and by wrath's controul,
“Dark as Erebus, is his cruel soul—

“In such a man my friend put not thy trust,
“Thousands he'll sacrifice to inward lust,”
But seek the man who keeps the goodly quid,
In neat array beneath the shining lid:
The man whose nose is ting'd with fragrant snuff,
And who delights tobacco's smoke to puff.

167

This is the man who sympathising hears,
To tales of sorrow bends his list'ning ears;
Tobacco's juice has sought his feeling mind,
And kindled charity for all mankind—
When rising youth rough science paths explore,
When learning's pages slow they ponder o'er:

When the fair scenes which histories convey
With anxious eyes delighted they survey:
When pleas'd they strive the Muse's walks to tread,
And thoughtfully incline their studious head;
Tobacco in deep thought adds pleasure's glow
And bids more free their young ideas flow;

It animation in their breasts inspires,
And from soft slumbers wakes poetic fires;
Puff'd from their mouths it gives them thought profound,
In circles rising, throws its scent around.
When solitude her dark grey mantle throws,
And lulls the world in quiet's calm repose,

A solemn and a gloomy stillness reigns,
The voice of Nature's ceas'd upon the plains.
By solitude's surrounding scene oppress'd
A pensive melancholy clouds my breast;

168

To sooth my grief no fav'rite friend is nigh,
No tender accents to suppress my sigh,

For none the solitary bard can claim,
None can he call by that delightful name.
The kind Segar with mournful phiz I light,
And bid its smoke salute the shades of night;
Soon its sweet breath slow rising in the air,
Regales my senses and relieves my care;

Puff after puff in quick succession flow,
Composure soon supplies the place of woe;
Again with joy, I rear my drooping head,
And soft repose invites me to her bed,
With musing glow upon her breast I leap,
And sink inraptured in the arms of sleep.

Full many a gem of purest ray serene,
The dark unfathom'd deeps of ocean bear,
Full many a flower is born to blush unseen,
And waste its fragrance in the desert air.—
Gray.

The man that hath not music in himself,
And is not mov'd with concord of sweet sounds,
Is fit for treasons, stratagems and spoils.—
Shakespeare.

ADDRESS to the NIGHTINGALE.

A Sonnet.

Hush'd be the blast which howls in sullen roar,
Still be yon Bell, which casts its tinkling round,
Lull'd be the wave which rolls against the shore,
“While eagerly I catch the thrilling sound.”

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Oft has sad sorrow hail'd thee bird of night,
And listen'd to thy solitary song,
Sigh'd to the zephyr's swift and fearful flight,
Which woeful murmur'd as it mov'd along.

What fascinating charms are in thy strain?
That sweetly melts the bosom into peace,
In sweet composure lulls the lover's pain,
With soothing mandates bids affliction cease.

But now no lover seeks thee in the grove,
No mourner smitten by a captious lass,
Not yet this bosom has been prey to love,
And still may Cupid long unheedful pass.

Strike lonely bird thy melancholy lays,
'Tis MELANCHOLY HERE triumphant reigns;
The moon pale wanders o'er her dreary ways.
Wrapt into silence tumult shuns the plains,

Fann'd by the gale thy trilling sorrows rise,
Soft plaintive echo leaves her vacant cave,
The breeze more sadly thro' the willow sighs,
Which shades some stranger's solitary grave.

My musing bosom the kind influence feels,
Still the fond song the sweetest bard extends,

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The quiv'ring lay yet on my bosom steals
From clouds ambrosial beauteous PEACE descends.

ADDRESS TO ADELINE.

When beauteous Adeline attunes her lyre,
Each poet-bosom thrills with genial fire,
The patriot passions with fond rapture glow
When freedom's charms in warbling music flow,
When Independence in her soaring strains,
Smiles o'er Collumbia's free and happy plains—

Soft was thy music, fair poetic maid,
Which sweetly sung in Beth'lem's lonely shade,
When Lehieghs stream receiv'd the plaintive song,
And still more mournful murm'ring flow'd along.
Oft has thy lyre in accents smooth and slow,
Tun'd in soft melody the tale of woe.

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The flowing numbers told a maid distress'd,
And wafted sorrow to a stranger's breast,
Fair scenes of Nature in luxuriance rose,
And kindly smil'd on Adeline's repose;
But still their charms no soothing aid impart,
Still thoughtful sorrow damps thy feeling heart.

Thy odes inspiring lively ardour cheer,
Thy tender elegy demands a tear,
The lofty strain of Liberty is thine,
The soothing numbers of the sacred nine;
Accept sweet poetess what candor pays
In admiration of thy tuneful lays.

218

GENIUS.

A POEM.

Columbia hail! each patriot's boast and pride,
Where virtue glories, and the brave reside;
Where Freedom dwells in charms celestial fair,
And bold unfurls her banners in the air.—
Smiling she roves the ever blooming fields,
Views the grand landscape which the mountain yields,
She silent ponders on old Hudson's brow,
And hears his waters rolling loud below.
She to the city turns her beaming eyes,
And sees its columns tow'ring to the skies;
Enchantingly, she smiles, and waves her hair,
Which flows in ringlets with an easy air.
A snowy robe conceals her heavenly form,
And screens the goddess from the howling storm;
A graceful cap sits lightly on her head,
And nodding plumes her placid brows o'erspread.
Her polish'd leg an an azure buskin binds,
There the rich diamond, in transparence shines,

219

A thoughtful glow spreads her enticing face,
Each look is beauty, and each movement grace.
Her form divine, her mien, her charming air,
Equally graceful, elegant and fair.
Lo! yonder comes, from yon reclusive grove,
Along whose thickets, rills meand'ring rove,
Her sister genius with majestic tread,
Fair wreaths of laurel grace her sacred head:
A splendid garb behind flows loosely down,
Her lovely waist two starry belts surround.—
Her azure eye far darts its piercing rays,
Explores the planets in their wheeling ways;
Fair Nature's stores, the ocean's rolling wave,
The tow'ring mountain and the dismal cave:
An awful grandeur, with enchanting ease,
Commanding dignity, each charm to please,
Dwell in her gestures, and her melting strain,
And quell the passions to her happy reign—,
The youth enraptur'd follows to her shade,
And gives his soul to the celestial maid.

The goddess speaks! what soft melodious sound,
Casts its sweet music, and its accents round!

220

What soothing strains enchant the panting breast,
And lull its sorrows and its cares to rest.

“Columbian youth! my spacious paths pursue,
“My lone retreats I wide extend to you;
“Let not the mountain's steep and rugged height,
“Retard your way, or terrify your sight:
“Once when you climb its bold and haughty brow,
“The plains of Eden sweetly bloom below:
“Its streams and lawns delight the wand'ring eye,
“Its cascades murmur and its zephyrs sigh,
“Its lonely gardens in luxuriance bloom,
“Breathe forth their songs and shed their mild perfume.

“The views of Nature which my Newton made,
“The scenes of science which this sage survey'd:
“The sight of terror which my Franklin drew
“When from the clouds the lawful lightning flew,

221

“Strive favourite youth with eager warmth to claim,
“And join with Franklin your immortal name—
“Be it your care to charm the list'ning throng,
“To bear their passions with your speech along;
“But seek no art save gestures graceful air,
“The affectations weak bombastic glare:
“Let Nature prompt the feelings of the soul,
“And hold the passions in her just controul.

“Does eloquence entice you with its charms,
“Columbia hails you with her joyful arms;
“Within her senate Independence reigns,
“And binds no sycophant in royal chains;
“Here raise your voice in Freedom's sacred cause,
“Adopt those schemes congenial with her laws.
“The orator of Greece in Freedom's aid,
“And in the garb of eloquence array'd,
“Rous'd from their slumbers every Grecian chief;

“Each grasp'd his sword and flew to her relief.

222

“Rome's lofty temples and her splendid feats,
“Her fragrant gardens and her cool retreats,
“The spacious capitol where virtue bloom'd,
“The traitorous Cataline would have consum'd;
“Had not a Tully rear'd aloft his head,
“Dispell'd his schemes and struck the traitor dead.

“What breast is callous to poetic force,
“Who feels no rapture from this passion'd source?
“If fondness leads, let poesy be thine,
“Court the sweet favours of the tuneful nine:
“But if they shun your anxious request,
“Cast the fond wishes from your youthful breast;
“But if they smile, and glad approve your lays,
“Still prove more worthy of their thrilling praise.

“But stay, if gold is pleasing to your sight,
“And wealth and equipage your mind's delight;
“The Muse bestows no favours but her strain,
“No other friend to sooth thee in thy pain.

223

The goddess ceas'd; her arms bewitching spread,
And wav'd the laurels which adorn'd her head.
The vocal throngs which listen'd on their trees,
The lulling murmur of the evening breeze,
Which paus'd in silence when the goddess spoke,
Wak'd from their transports and their slumbers broke:
They raise again their soft and matin strains,
And breath their music o'er the silent plains.

DAVID's ELEGY OVER SAUL AND JONATHAN.

2 SAM. 1 CHAP. 19 VER.

On sad Gilboa's drear and silent plain,
Where lofty mounts in sullen darkness rise;
Dejected Israel, all thy beauty's slain,
Thy pride and glory in fall'n grandeur lies.

Tell not in Gath or Askelon our woe,
Lest the glad maids of Philistine rejoice;
Soft let the voice of mournful sorrow flow,
Still be the warriors dull and plaintive voice.

224

Barren Gilboa, be thy tow'ring head,
Let no rich fruits thy blasted desarts yield,
Nor dews, nor rain, their liv'ning influence shed;
There fell our hero on thy bloody field—

Saul's fatal sword was dreadful to his foe,
The valiant trembled at the glitt'ring view:
When princely Jonathan loud twang'd his bow,
Swift to its aim the awful arrow flew.

Swifter than eagles cleave their rapid flight,
The sprightly warriors ran the hostile ground;
Stronger than lions in the furious fight,
They pour'd their strength and death terrific round.

In life and health, on each fond aspect play'd
The smile of friendship and fair beauty's bloom,
But now they've sought death's solitary shade,
And undivided share one silent tomb.

Daughters of Israel strike the gloomy song
With sighs and tears your monarch's urn attend,
Let notes of sorrow murmur sad along,
And, borne by zephyrs, to the skies ascend.

225

In ornaments of gold and fond delight,
Your charms the monarch in fair pride array'd,
Your purple vestments splendid met the sight,
And shining gems their sparkling rays display'd.

Where Gilboa rears its melancholy head,
The trump of battle threw its solemn sound;
The precious blood of Jonathan was shed,
And ting'd the verdure of the thirsty ground.

Ne'er let this voice forget its sorrowing moan,
These streaming eyes with sympathy to flow,
Dear to thee, Prince, was Jessy's humble son,
Love in thy breast assum'd its genial glow.

When from the shades of Bethlehem I came,
When adverse fortune aim'd its deadly dart,
Thy generous bosom ever was the same,
More firm thy friendship than the virgin's heart.

Fall'n are the mighty on Gilboa's plain,
In scatter'd ruins war's bright weapons lie
The tears of friendship, and of love are vain—
In vain, dear Prince, thy David's lonely sigh.

228

OITHONA.

A POEM OF OSSIAN VERSIFIED.

229

ARGUMENT.

Gaul, the son of Morni, attended Lathmon into his own country, where he was kindly entertained by Nuath, the father of Lathmon, and fell in love with his daughter Oithona. The lady was no less enamoured of Gaul, and a day was fixed for their marriage. In the mean time, Fingal, preparing for an expedition, sent for Gaul. He obeyed and went; but promised Oithona to return if he survived the war, by a certain day. Lathmon too was obliged to attend his father Nuath in his wars; and Oithona was left alone at Dunlathmon, the seat of the family. Dunromath, Lord of Cuthal, taking advantage of the absence of her friends, came, and carried off by force, Oithona, who had formerly rejected his love, into Tromathon, where he concealed her in a cave. —Gaul returned on the day appointed; heard of the rape, and sailed to Tromathon, to revenge himself on Dunromath. When he landed, he found Oithona disconsolate, and resolved not to survive the loss of her honour. She told him the story of her misfortunes, and she had scarce ended, when Dunromath with his followers

230

appeared at the other end of the island. Gaul prepared to attack him, recommending to Oithona to retire until the battle was over. She seemingly obeyed; but secretly armed herself, rushed in the thickest of the battle, and was mortally wounded. Gaul having put to fight and pursued the enemy, was returning toward the cave to look for Oithona, when he found her leaning on the rocks just expiring. He mourned over her, raised her tomb, and returned to Morven. The poem opens with Gaul's return to Dunlathmon at the time appointed, after the rape of Oithona.

231

“Around Dunlathmon pensive glooms arise,
The moon shews half her face upon the hill:
Night's gloomy daughter turns her rolling eyes,
She sees with sorrow the approaching ill—
The noble son of Morni's on the field:
Ceas'd is the sound within the spacious room,
Long streaming beams no more their gladness yield,
Trembling they come not; through the awful gloom,
Oithona's gentle voice is heard no more,
Where fair Duvrannas, streams, in murmurs roar.

Ah! whither in thy beauty hast thou stray'd,
Where wanders Nuath's daughter, dark-hair'd maid?
Lathmon is absent on the warlike plain,
But in the hall thou promis'd to remain
'Till Morni's son had sheath'd his shining blade,
And sought you in Duvrannas cooling shade,
'Till he from Sturmon came to seek thy charms,
And tell his passion in thy snowy arms!

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The tear at his departure sought thine eye,
Secret thy bosom heav'd the pensive sigh;
But thou com'st not with music and with songs,
Nor the harps cheerful, lightly-trembling sound,
Hush'd is the echoes of the tuneful throngs;
Sorrow has thrown her gloomy garb around.”

Such were the words of Gaul, when he came nigh,
Where strong Dunlathmon's tow'rs majestic beam on high—
The gates were open, darkness wrapt the wall;
The winds were blust'ring through the vacant hall;
The trees had strow'd the threshold with their leaves,
Night's mournful murmur rode upon the breeze.

Upon a rock great Morni's son reclin'd,
A tender sorrow sooth'd his warlike mind:
Trembling, his soul thought on the lovely maid,
He told her beauties to the whispering shade;
He knew not where his searching steps to turn,
Or whither the fair maid had gone to learn!
The son of Leth beheld his silent care
And heard the winds play in his bushy hair,

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But he his voice and needless words withheld,
For he Gaul's sorrow and his grief beheld!

Now both these chiefs sunk in soft sleeps repose,
The glim'ring visions of dark night arose—
Before the eyes of Morni's son appear'd,
Oithona's beauteous form by love endear'd,
Loose and disorder'd, wav'd her shining hair,
Her Lovely eye roll'd deep in tears, from care,
With crimson blood, her snowy arm was dy'd,
The robe half hid the wound which pierc'd her side;
O'er the brave chief she stood in mournful mien,
Her words were feebly heard, in voice serene.

“Sleeps Gaul, once lovely in Oithona's eyes?
Sleeps Morni's son and Nuath's daughter's low?
Around dark Tromathon the waves arise,
Within the tearful cave I sit in woe—
Oithona, not alone, O Gaul remains,
There also stays dread Cuthal's bloody chief;
He in the rage of love, your bride retains—
What can Oithona do, where seek relief?”

A rougher blast, rush'd thro' the spreading oak,
Night's gloomy visions fled; the dream was broke.

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The hero rose and snatch'd his aspen spear,
His soul was rage, his beaming eye struck fear;
Often towards the east he turn'd his sight,
Impatient he accus'd the lagging light:
At length bright Sol's enliv'ning rays prevail,
The hero lifted up the spreading sail—
The winds came rust'ling from the lofty steep,
He bounded on the billows of the deep.
On the third day Tromathon's walls arose
Like a blue shield reflective streams disclose,
Against its rocks the white wave roaring flows.

Oithona on the coast, sat by her cave,
She fix'd her eyes upon the rolling wave;
Trembling, the tears o'er her fair cheek ran down,
And flutter'd to the wind her snowy gown.
But when she saw Gaul in his arms arise,
Starting she turn'd away her sorrowing eyes.
Her lovely cheek is bent, in crimson dy'd,
Her white arm trembles by her heaving side;
Thrice from his presence she attempts to fly,
Thrice her steps fail'd her while the chief drew nigh.

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“Daughter of Nuath,” said the noble chief,
“Why dost thou fly from Gaul in sullen grief?
Send forth mine eyes, Death's terrifying flame!
Does hatred darken in my soul; or blame?
Thou art to me the east's gold-gilding ray,
Which lights the stranger's solitary way:
But thou with sadness, hide thy glowing face,
And shun thy hero's and thy Gaul's embrace?
Is the dread foe, of fair Oithona, near?
My soul burns in me for to dart the spear,
The sword of Gaul, now trembles by his thigh,
And longs to glitter in his hand on high.
Daughter of Nuath speak; dost thou not see,
My love, my sorrow, and my tears for thee?”

“Strumon's young chief,” replied the gentle maid,
“Why have you come to this sad cruel shade?
Why com'st thou o'er the waters dark-blue wave?
To seek Oithona, in her gloomy cave?
Why did I not in secret pass away,
Like the fair flow'r which lifts its head unseen?
Before the blasts its withered leaves decay,
They strew its once gay foliage o'er the green.

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Why didst thou come to hear my parting sigh?
I vanish in my youth; my name shall die;
The mournful tale my father soon will hear,
And sink in anguish o'er his daughter's bier.”

Sad thou wilt mourn for thy Oithona's fame;
But she shall sleep within the narrow tomb,
Deaf to the mourner's voice who sighs her name,
And slumbers o'er her turf in silent gloom.
Why, graceful chief of Strumon, did'st thou come?
Where rise the sea—beat rocks of Tromathon.

“I come fair maid, to seek, thy hated foes,
To soothe thy bosom and relieve thy woes!
Before mine eyes the chief of Cuthal's slain,
Or Morni's son shall fall upon the plain!
When Gaul is low, Oithona, raise my grave,
Upon that oozy rock; where rolls the wave,
When the dark-bounding ship shall pass below,
To the sea's sons this well try'd sword bestow,
That they may bear it hence to Morni's hall,
And hang it glittering from the polish'd wall—
No more the grey-hair'd chief his eyes will turn
Towards the desart for his sons return.

“Shall Nuath's daughter live,” the maid addrest,
While a deep sigh stole from her gentle breast?

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“Shall Nuath's daughter live, when Gaul lies low,
Feel no keen anguish and no tender woe?
My heart is not that rock; my soul the careless seas,
Which lift their dark-blue waves to every breeze,
And roll beneath the storm; which sweeps along,
And raises the tempestuous, billowy song.
The blasts which lay the son of Morni dead,
Oithona's branches on the earth shall spread,
Together we shall wither, noble chief;
The narrow house, the grey-stone bring relief.
Thy lofty rocks, thy sea surrounded shore,
O Tromathon, Oithona leaves no more.

Night came with her dark clouds and gloomy train,
When Lathmon sought the warlike on the plain;
When to Dunthormoth's mossy rock he went
To his brave father's wars; and rais'd the tent;

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Dark night came on, I in the hall remain'd,
At the oak's beam, which its wide form sustain'd.
The wind abroad howl'd through the rust'ling trees,
A solemn sadness, hung upon the breeze,
I heard the sound of arms; joy ting'd my face,
I thought of thy return, and fond embrace—
It was the red-hair'd strength of Cuthal's chief,
The grim Dunromath; joyful in my grief,
His eyes roll'd fire, in awful fierceness lowr'd,
My people's blood had dy'd his tort'ring sword:
Their bleeding bodies spread the flowing ground,
And horror quiver'd on each gaping wound.
Weak was my feeble arm; what could I do?
I could not lift the spear, or shoot the bow.
He rais'd the sail amidst my grief and tears,
And pleas'd for Tromathon's high rocks he steers—
Lathmon's return, the cruel coward dreads,
Wide to the wind the canvass sail he spreads.
But lo! with troops, the gloomy warrior comes,
Before his gliding ship, the dark wave foams:
Whither, O Gaul, for safety wilt thou go?
Many's the warriors of thy hated foe.

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“My steps ne'er turn'd from war,” the hero said,
And quick unsheath'd the light'ning of his blade.
“Shall I, Oithona, then begin to fear,
When thy dread foes in shining arms appear?
Go to the cave my love and there remain
Until the battle cease upon the plain.
Thou son of Leth quick bring our father's bows,
Great Morni's quiver dreadful to his foes!
To bend the bow be our three warriors care,
Ourselves will lift the beaming spear—
They are a host upon the rocks afar!
Our souls are strong and invincible in war!”

Oithona sought her solitary cave,
And silent listen'd to the passing wave;
A troubled joy within her bosom flows
Like lightning's path, which stormy clouds disclose;
Her soul's resolv'd the chrystal tear is dry,
That trembled in her wild and fearful eye.

Dunromath, slowly with his chiefs drew near,
He saw the son of Morni with his spear;
Contempt, upon his face, contracted, glows,
A smile upon his dark-brown cheek arose;
Near half conceal'd by the wide spreading rows
His red eye roll'd beneath his shaggy brows—

240

“Whence the sea's sons?” The gloomy chief begun,
“Have the winds driven you on dread Tromathon?
Or come you here to Cuthal's cooling shade,
To search Oithona the white handed maid?
Th' unhappy's sons, ye poor and feeble band,
Come to Dunromath's unrelenting hand!
His eye spares not the weak and timid foe,
He sees with joy a stranger's blood and woe.
Oithona is a beam of glad'ning light,
Which Cuthal's chief beholds with fond delight;
Would'st thou come on its beauty like a cloud,
Son of the feeble hand in weakness proud!
Thou may'st come, but thy old father's hall
No more thoul't see, but by my vengeance fall.”

“Dost thou not know me?” Gaul, the hero said,
“Thou red-hair'd chief of Cuthal's cruel shade?
Thy feet in car-borne Lathmon's war were swift,
Upon the heath and o'er the rocky clift;

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When the stain'd sword within my thund'ring hand,
Pursued the host in Morven's woody land?
Dunromath, mighty is thy tongue's fierce sound,
While now thy warriors pour in crouds around.
But do I fear them haughty son of pride?
Though not in numbers I in strength confide.”

Thus Gaul indignant on Dunromath glanc'd,
And dreadful in his shining arms advanc'd—
Dunromath shrunk behind his troops with fear,
But Gaul pursuing pierc'd him with his spear;
His sword lop'd off his grim and shaggy head,
While death approaching, its dread horror spread.
Thrice by the lock the ghastly head he shook;
Dunromath's people to swift flight betook.
Dread Morven's arrows quick pursu'd the foe,
Ten were the warriors that the shafts laid low;
The rest lift up the wide and spreading sail,
And bound upon the deep before the gale.
Towards the cave Gaul sought the lovely maid,
And in its scabbard sheath'd his deadly blade.

He saw a youth reclining on the rocks,
His form was graceful, loosely wav'd his locks.
A fatal shaft had pierc'd his side and thigh;
Beneath his helmet faintly roll'd his eye—

242

The former joys of Gaul's brave bosom cease,
He came and spake the soothing words of peace.

“Can Gaul's hand heal thee, of the mournful brow?
The mountains I have search'd where herbage grow:
Them I have gathered on the secret green,
Where glides the deep unruffled and serene—
My hand has clos'd the hero's bleeding wound,
Their eyes have bless'd me, and my kindness crown'd.

Where, youthful warrior, do thy fathers dwell?
Were they the mighty sons, who glorious fell?
Sadness like night, thy native streams shall seek;
Thou'rt fallen in thy youth, and blooming cheek.”

The graceful stranger in soft voice replied,
“Great were my fathers race, in warlike pride,
But they shall not be sad; or sorrow shed,
In fond remembrance o'er my slumb'ring head;
For like the morning mist my fame has fled.
High walls upon the banks of Duvran beam,
And see their mossy towers in the stream.—

243

Behind a rock with pines ascends on high,
And distant far, majestic strikes the eye,
There my brave brother and his warriors dwell,
Give him this helm, and give my last farewell.”

The helmet fell from Gaul's uplifted hands,
Oithona wounded, 'fore the warrior stands!
Within the cave herself in arms she'd drest,
And came to die upon her hero's breast.
Half clos'd are now, her heavy azure eyes;
Her snowy bosom throb'd repeated sighs:
Copious the blood, pours from her heaving side,
And ting'd the verdure with its crimson tide.

“O Morni's noble son!” She whispering said,
“Prepare for me the narrow mould'ring tomb;
Sleep grows upon my soul like darkness's shade,
My closing eyes are bent in awful gloom!
O had I, at Duvranna, dwelt in fame!
Then had my years come on in smiling joy;
The virgins then would bless my steps and name;
And fair Oithona every tongue employ.
But, son of Morni! in my youth I fall!
My father blushes in his mournful hall.”

She fell—pale on the rock of Tromathon
The mournful warrior rais'd her silent tomb.

Morlo the son of Leth was one of Fingal's most famous heroes.—He and three others attended Gaul on his expedition to Jonathan.

Oithona begins to relate how she was carried away by Dunromath.

244

An EPISTLE to a FRIEND,

FROM THE COUNTRY.

When Nature's scenes with pleasing eye I view,
My tender thought turns, fav'rite friend, on you;
Friend of my youth, whose sympathetic soul,
Sway'd by soft friendship's genuine controul,
Has bid for me the tear in sorrow flow,
Has sigh'd responsive to the tale of woe,
And felt for me joys fascinating glow.
Far from my friend I mourn my absent lot,
And ease my bosom with indulgent thought,
The aid of fancy my fond breast employs,
To trace our pleasures and our youthful joys;
Our happy studies and our warm disputes,
Our curious plans and wandering pursuits;
When led by fancy's wild and fairy dreams,
Well pleased we ponder'd o'er some secret schemes.
Honor and fame then swell'd each friendly breast,
And fondest hope has lull'd them into rest,
When learning pour'd her lofty strains along
We each have listen'd to her soaring song;

245

Have fondly smil'd and thought the maid our own,
And dwelt in science and in Greek alone.
Oft when we wander'd o'er the distant plain;
We talked of Homer's grand majestic strain:
We said how sweet the gentle Maro sung,
What copious music warbled from his tongue.
Sweet flowing Pope hath also claim'd our praise,
As we oft listen'd to his soothing lays;
Dropt a sad tear at Eloisa's doom
And heav'd a sigh o'er his Maria's tomb.
Oft have we paus'd o'er Thompson's lively scenes,
And cast our eyes o'er Nature's flowing greens.
When he described the Thames' murmuring flow,
We thought we heard some plaintive stream below.
The youthful D---s has our praise employ'd,
His patriot prologue we have oft enjoyed;
We read his strains and thought, with pleas'd surprise,
A ripening Pope would in Columbia rise.

246

Sweet to the youth is fancy's syren dreams,
Sweet to his thought imagination's schemes;
The present time they pleasingly employ,
And warm the soul with visionary joy:
Far from my friend no more on these we dwell,
No more these dictates of our bosom tell;
No more conversing with my friend I rove,
Along the valley and the cooling grove—
The trees which hover o'er the rocky cave,
The loud hoarse murmur of old Hudson's wave,
The verdant vales which strike the wand'ring sight,
The tow'ring mountain's grand majestic height.
The gale which whispers thro' the quiv'ring trees,
Have partly lost their charms to sooth and please:
Friendship, these scenes of rural life endears,
Greener the valley in her sight appears.

248

THE DEATH OF CUTHULLIN,

A POEM OF OSSIAN VERSIFIED.

249

ARGUMENT.

Cuthullin, after the arms of Fingal had expelled Swaran from Ireland, continued to manage the affairs of that kingdom, as the guardian of Cormac the young King. In the third year of Cuthullin's administration, Torlath, the son of Cartela, rebelled in Connaught; and advanced to Temora to dethrone Cormac. Cuthullin marched against him, came up with him at the lake of Lego, and totally defeated his forces. Torlath fell in the battle by Cuthullin's hand; but as he too eagerly pressed on the enemy, he was mortally wounded. The affairs of Cormac, though for some time supported by Nathos as mentioned in another poem, fell in confusion at the death of Cuthullin. Cormac himself was slain by the rebel Cairbar.

It may not be improper that the reader may fully understand the poem, to give some information respecting Cuthullin.

Cuthullin the son of Semo, and grandson to Caithbat, a celebrated Druid in tradition for his wisdom and valour, married when very young

250

Bragela the daughter of Sorglan, and passing over into Ireland, lived for some time with Cormal, grandson to the king of Ulster. His wisdom and valour in a short time gained him such reputation, that in the minority of Cormac, the supreme king of Ireland, he was chosen guardian to the young king, and sole manager of the war against Swaran, king of Lochlin. After a series of great actions, he was killed in the twenty-seventh year of his age. He was so remarkable for his strength, that to describe a strong man, it has passed into a proverb, “he has the strength of Cuthullin.” They show the remains of his palace at Dunscaith in the Isle of Sky; and a stone to which he bound his dog goes still by his name.

251

Is this the sighing wind on Fingal's shield?
Or do past times their solemn accents yield?
Sing on sweet voice, my pleasing thought employ,
Thro' midnight glooms, you whisper peace and joy—
Sing on O Bragela in night's dell shade!
Cuthullin's love, and Sorglan's beauteous maid.

“'Tis the white wave which o'er the rock prevails,
And not Cuthullin's gladly swelling sails—
Oft do the gloomy mists deceitful prove,
And paint the ship of my returning love!
When round some stalking ghost they rising shed,
And to the wind, their greyish mantle spread,
Why thy wish'd coming, chief! dost thou delay?
What, generous Semo's son, detains thy stay?
Four times has Autumn sought us with its breeze,
And rais'd Togorma's loudly foaming seas;

252

Since thou hast been where roars the strife of war,
And from her chief, Bragela, distant far!
When misty isles will you with clam'rous sounds?
Re-echo to the mighty warrior's hounds?
But ah! your clouds are dark and hung in gloom,
And sad foretell my hero's hapless doom.
Weeping Bragela sorrowing calls in vain!
Night's awful shadows hover o'er the plain,
The face of ocean's with damp mourning spread,
Beneath his wing the heath cock hides his head,
In the drear desart by the rising steep,
The hind and hart in thoughtless slumbers sleep,
When the fair morn sheds her bright silver beam,
They rise and wander by the mossy stream—
But when the sun with majesty appears,
Continued flow Bragela's sorrowing tears;
When pensive night salutes my languid eyes,
My breast awakens to its tender signs—
When in thy arms will Erin's warrior come
And seek Bragela, and thy peaceful home.”

253

Thy mournful voice O Sorglan's maid I hear,
Pleasant's thy strain in Ossian's list'ning ear!
But to the hall of shells, fair maid retire;
To the oak's beam, which lights the pleasing fire,
List to the murmur of the passing wave,
Which Dunscai's walls with foaming fury lave,
Let sleep's soft influence visit thy blue eyes—
Let the brave hero in thy dreams arise!

At Lego's lake the great Cuthullin stays,
Where the dark waters roll their furious ways,
The shades of night the generous chief surround,
His num'rous warriors spread the fertile ground.
A hundred oaks a kindred warmth supplies
The feast of shells in smoaking fragrance rise;
Beneath a tree old Carril strikes the lay,
His grey locks glitter in fair Luna's ray;
The rustling blast of dark brown night is near,
And lifts before the breeze his aged hair—
He sings Togorma and its gallant chief!

“Cuthullin's friend in disappointed grief—
Why art thou absent, Cormal, in the day,
When glooms and storms prohibit thy delay?

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The southern chiefs have rais'd the pointed lance,
'Gainst car-borne Cormac dreadful they advance.
Thy blue waves roll the winds, thy sails detain,
But not alone does Cormac now remain—
The son of Semo fights his hated foe!
The son of Semo, bends the deadly bow!
The son of Semo leads the dreadful war!
The terror of the stranger from afar—
He that is like the frightful mist of death
Borne by the sultry winds destroying breath,
In its dread presence the great sun grows red,
The people fall when its thick vapours shed.”

Such was old Carril's thrilling song, when lo!
Appear'd a son of th' approaching foe;
He threw upon the ground the pointless spear,
He spoke the words of Torlath to the ear!
Torlath the chief from Lego's sable wave!
The Prince of Heroes, “bravest of the brave,”
He that to battle his brave thousands led,
To pour his vengeance on young Cormac's head;
The car-borne Cormac who far hence remains,
At Temora's halls and solitary plains,
His warlike father's bow he learnt to bend,
To lift the spear, and swift the weapon send;

255

Nor long didst thou, youth's mildly shining beam,
Lift the bright spear, and taste life's flowing stream;
Behind thee Death stands dim in blacken'd night,
Like the dark moon behind its growing light.
Before the bard the great Cuthullin rose,
That came from Torlath, and his num'rous foes—
The son of songs, whom glory's strains employ
Honoring he gave the flowing shell of joy.

“Sweet voice of Lego,” great Cuthullin said,
“What's Torlath's words the chief of Connaught's shade?
Comes he to feast with generous Semo's son?
Or to dread battle with the rising sun?”

“He comes to battle,” the stern bard replied,
“The bright sword glitters by great Torlath's side!
The hero comes to sounding strife of spears,
Which warble music to the warrior's ears!
When the grey worm reflects on Lego's main,
Torlath will seek you on the extended plain—

256

King of the misty isle wilt thou in arms,
Meet this great foe and join in war's alarms?
Awful is Torlath's bloody spear in fight!
'Tis like a meteor of the gloomy night.
Its dreadful point he lifts, the people fall!
And terror freezes the fierce souls of all—
Upon the light'ning of his dreadful blade,
Death sits terrific, cloth'd in crimson shade!”

Cuthullin fierce replied, “Bard do I fear?
The car-borne Torlath's sword and threat'ning spear!
Brave as heroic thousands Torlath fights:
But know Cuthullin's soul in war delights.
Bard of the times of old the warrior's pride,
The sword rests neither by Cuthullin's side!
Upon the plain the rising morn shall beam;
And on the arms of Semo's champion gleam.
But on the heath do thou O bard remain,
And let us hear thy sweet and flowing strain,
Partake the shell, and hear steal soft along
The warbling accents of Temora's song.”
“This is no time,” the gentle bard replied,
“To hear the song in joyful music glide;

257

When in dread war approach the great and brave,
Like the loud strength of Lego's rolling wave.
Why sunk in sorrow dark Slimora's still!
With all thy silent woods and pensive glades;
No star now trembles on thy dusky hill;
No moon-beam glimmers thro' thy awful shades;
But the sad meteors of death are near,
The watery form of greyish ghosts are seen;
Why cloth'd in darkness do thy haunts appear?
And silent horrors hover o'er thy green.”

Now murm'ring dies, the bard's slow plaintive songs,
Old Carril joins and pours the strain along;
The soothing notes in gloomy music roll,
And sweet instill soft sorrow to the soul—
Joys that are past are call'd to pleasing view
And tender themes the thoughtful breast renew.
Along Slimora's dark and sorrowing plains,
The ghosts of bards are heard in woeful strains,
Thro' whisp'ring woods soft sounds flow sad along
Night's verdant vallies the fond note prolong.

So when the day is lull'd in silent ease,
And in the valley steals the cooling breeze;

258

The mountain bee's sweet hum strikes Ossian's ear,
And claims the tribute of a tender tear.
In their swift course the gales the murmur drown,
But soon again returns the pleasing sound.

Slant looks the sun upon the dreary field!
Gradual the hills to low'ring shadow's yield!
“Cuthullin bid his hundred bards to raise
The lofty song in noble Fingal's praise:
The song he hears when night's dark shadows blend,
When pleasing dreams upon the chief descend!
When distant far the floating music calls,
And the faint light gleams on fair Selma's walls;
Or let the grief of flowing Loira rise,
Brave Calmar's mother's solitary sighs;
When from the hills he answer'd not her call;
And his strong bow hung in his spacious hall.

259

Place on that branch the shield of Caithbat near,
Bring near Cuthullin's dreadful aspen spear.
That battle's sound may from the valley rise,
When the grey beam shall gild the eastern skies.”

The hero lean'd upon his father's shield:
The song of Lara echo'd o'er the field!
The hundred bards were distant on the plains,
Carril alone beside the chief remains—
The words old Carril in loud accents sung,
Around his harp a mournful warbling hung.

“Gentle Alcletha with the aged locks!
Why dost thou look toward the desart's rocks!
Whose tender feelings with affection burn,
And anxious wish your gallant son's return.
That's not his troop which on the heath rejoice,
Nor is that Calmar's loud commanding voice;
'Tis but Alcletha, the far distant seas!
The hollow roaring of the mountain breeze!”

“Who bounds o'er Lara's loud meandring stream,
Thou lovely sister of my noble son?

260

Do not my eyes behold the warrior's beam?
But ah! my eyes are dim and light they shun—
Is not that Calmar which appears to move?
Gentle Alona, daughter of my love?”—

“'Tis but a distant and an aged oak,
Weeping Alona, sorrowfully spoke;
'Tis but an aged oak's deceiving beam,
Bent o'er fair Lara's hoarse resounding stream—
But who with swiftness o'er the plain draws near?
Sorrow and grief in his quick steps appear;
High he lifts up brave Calmar's bloody spear.”

“But with the blood of his sad foes 'tis spread,
Which he Alona, in his wrath has shed!
Ne'er did his spear return, without blood's stain!
Nor his bow dreadful on the hostile plain—
His awful presence the fierce fight consumes,
The flame of death sits on his waving plumes.
Thou mournful youth, where is my son, O where?
Ease my fond bosom of its anxious care?

261

Does he return with his increasing name?
While echoing shields resound the conqueror's fame,
Darkness and silence in thy bosom dwell,
Calmar's no more, my noble hero's fell!
Tell me not warrior of the blood—stain'd ground!
O tell me not my Calmar's bleeding wound.

Why dost thou look toward the desart shade?
Thou sorrowing mother of the chief low-laid.”

Such melancholy notes flow'd sweet along,
The chief lean'd on his shield and heard the song;
The music of their harps the hundred cease,
Sleep softly fell and lull'd them into peace.
The son of Semo was awake alone,
His soul was fix'd, the beams of battle shone;
Gradual the hundred burning oaks decay,
Faint red light glimmers on the distant way;
A mournful silence wraps the gloomy fields,
The voice of woe its feeble accents yields.
The dead pale ghost of warlike Calmar's seen,
Dimly he stalk'd along the silent green.
Dark is the wound of the sharp pointed spear,
Pale on his face joys clouded rays appear;
Before the wind his locks disorder'd wave,
He calls Cuthullin to his chilly cave.
The godlike hero rising from the ground,
Threw his blue eyes in awful terror round.

262

“Son of the cloudy night he fiercely said
Why dost thou leave the grave's dark silent shade,
Why, ghost of noble Calmar, Erin's friend,
Dost thou on me thy frightful aspect bend?
Would'st thou persuade me Matha's gallant son,
The wars of Cormac, and the foe, to shun.
Thy arm in war O Calmar ne'er did cease,
Nor was thy manly voice for silent peace.
How art thou chang'd O chief of Lara's wave,
If thou would bid Cuthullin fly the brave,
Oft has the battle its loud roaring spread,
But from the foe Cuthullin never fled.
I never fear'd the hideous ghosts of night;
Thro' the bleak wind they take their dolesome flight;
Small is their knowledge, weak their slender arm,
In courage cloth'd the hero fears no harm;
But in war's danger glows Cuthullin's soul,
Joyful he hears the warrior's chariot roll,
The trump's shrill blast, the noisy clang of steel,
The hoarse resounding of the bossy shield—
Thou ghost retire to thy sad darksome cave,
Thou art not Calmar, he was great and brave!

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War his delight, the hero fear'd no harm,
Like heaven's thunder was his mighty arm.”

The ghost swift wing'd his melancholy ways,
He heard sweet flow the soothing voice of praise.

Faintly the beam of dawning morn arose,
The silent warriors reus'd from their repose,
Great Caithbat's buckler dreadful spread around,
The soldier started at the solemn sound—
Wak'd from soft slumbers and from peaceful dreams,
Green Erin's warriors flock like roaring streams,
O'er Lego's plain and distinct sounding far,
The pausing horn proclaims the approach of war.
Dreadful in war, and great his deathless name,
The mighty Torlath with his warriors came,
“Why dost thou hero with thy thousands come,
Great Erin's chief and car-borne Semo's son?
The chief of Lego to Cuthullin said,
While mimic light'ning flam'd upon his blade;
I know the strength which thy fierce arm inspires,
Thy soul in fight is unextinguish'd fires;

264

Why, on the plain, do we not hero fight?
And let our hosts behold the warlike sight.
Let them behold us like the roaring waves,
Which loud hoarse tumble from the rocky caves,
When their sad murmurs, thund'ring spread around,
The seamen startle at the threat'ning sound.”

The son of Semo joyfully return'd,
While valor in his panting bosom burn'd,

“Like the bright sun your words inspire my soul,
Thine arm is mighty, great in war's controul,
Worthy to meet Cuthullin on the plain,
And the fierce battles of the brave sustain.
Ye men of Ullin seek Slimora's side,
Behold Cuthullin in his fame and pride!—
Carril, to mighty Connal tell the tale,
If in the strife brave Torlath should prevail:
Tell him I blam'd the winds which whistling blow,
Where broad Togormac's rolling waters flow.
Ne'er when the trumpet sounded from afar,
Did Semo's hero fly th' approaching war—

265

In Cormac's cause let his bright sword be drawn,
Like the bright beams which gild the morning's dawn.
In Temora's plains, let his wise counsel sound,
When threat'ning danger spreads its gloom around.”

Dreadful as Loda rush'd the chief to fight,
The warriors trembled at the solemn sight.
When the fierce spirit comes in low'ring skies,
And scatters battles from his frightful eyes:
In roaring storms when Loda sad appears,
And chills the soldier with terrific fears,—
He sits on clouds, o'er Lochlins roaring seas,
His mighty hand, the glitt'ring sword unsheaths,
Winds howling from their close and hollow rocks,
Lift the dread spirits long and flaming locks!—
The waining moon halflights his dreadful face,
His features blended in dark gloom we trace.
So terrible Cuthullin in his fame,
Such beaming terrors from the warrior came,
Great Torlath fell by his all con'qring hand;
His weeping warriors sorrowfully stand.

266

They gather round their fallen hero's shade,
Like misty clouds which desart glooms pervade.
Fir'd by revenge their thousand swords they drew,
Thick through the air the whirring arrows flew;
Firm as a rock the great Cuthullin stood,
Lash'd by the billow of the roaring flood;
The bleeding warriors fall in numbers round,
He strode in blood, which flow'd the awful ground.

Slimora echo'd thro' its shades afar,
Cuthullin's warriors dreadful rush'd to war;
On Lego's dreary plains the battle spread,
Before Cuthullin, Torlath's heroes fled—
The chief of Erin's mighty arm o'ercame,
The fields re-echo'd his immortal name.

Pale he return'd with slow and solemn tread,
Dark clouded joys his pensive face o'erspread;
His languid eye in musing silence rolls,
Within his hand his unsheath'd sword he holds:
At every step his spear of aspen bends,
Death's low'ring cloud in dolesome shades descends.
“Carril, the dying chief in secret said,
Cuthullin's strength, and warlike ardour fade,

267

No scenes of war shall visit more my eyes,
No more to me shall morn in grandeur rise;
At dark Temora I shall not be found,
No more in counsel will they hear my sound.
Cormac will weep within his sighing hall,
Where is great Erin's chief? he'll starting call:
But far renown'd is fall'n—Cuthullin's fame,
The bards in songs will spread my warlike name.
The youth will say, fir'd by a martial pride,
O let me die as great Cuthullin died!
Renown the warrior cloathed like a robe,
His fame triumphant o'er the oceans rode—
Draw the sharp arrow, Carril, from my wound,
Lay your fall'n chief beneath that spreading tree,
Place my bright arms and Caithbat's shield around,
That they Cuthullin with his arms may see.”

“And does the son of grey-hair'd Semo fall?
Said gentle Carril with a rising sigh,
In mournful glooms is hung fair Tura's wall,
To murm'ring sorrow Dunscai's waves reply.

268

Thy spouse in lovely youth is left alone;
Thy little son his father's fate will moan!
He'll come to Bragela, and ask her why
She sheds that tear, and heaves that sorrowing sigh?
To the wide wall he'll lift his searching eyes,
And see his father's sword with sad surprise.
Whose sword is that, the little youth will say?
Whose sword is that my mournful mother pray?”

Who like the hart comes o'er the sadden'd field,
His wand'ring eyes an eager wildness yield?
The rolling tears from his pale face descend,
He searches for his fallen, fallen friend—
Connal, thou son of Colgar, weeping tell,
Where hast thou been when great Cuthullin fell?
Did stormy, unpropitious winds prevail?
Did the south gale swell thy wide spreading sail?
In battle has the mighty hero died!
And Connal absent, fought not by his side.

269

Let none the tale in tow'ring Selma, spread,
Nor where cool Morven waves its woody head?
Fingal is sad, the desart warriors weep,
And sorrow murmurs on the flowing deep.

By Lego's rolling wave they rais'd his tomb,
His mournful warriors wept their leader's doom:
At distance from his master Luath lies,
The song of bards rose soaring to the skies?”

“Blest son of Semo be thy mighty soul!
Awful in battle did thy terrors roll;
Thy strength was like the furious rolling stream,
Like to the eagle's wing thy speed did seem!
Thy path in “war, was spread with terror's shade,
The steps of death were swift behind thy blade.

Blest, son of Semo, be thy mighty soul!
Thou car-borne chief where Dunscai's waters roll!
Thou hast not, by the great and warlike, died,
Nor hast thy blood the spear of heroes dyed—
The shaft that laid Cuthullin low,
Came whizzing from a stranger's bow,
Nor whom he flew, did the weak bowman know;

270

The arrow came like the dread sting of death,
And piercing stole the chief of Erin's breath.

Peace to thy soul, within thy silent cave,
Chief of the misty isle and foaming wave.
The mighty are dispers'd at Temora's wall,
There's none in Cormac's sadly echoing hall;
The thoughtful king mourns in his youth for thee,
No more thy presence hero, shall he see:
Ceas'd is thy shield which struck an awful sound,
His foes again in numbers pour around.
Soft chief of Erin be thy quiet rest,
No more shall dangers animate thy breast;
No more Bragela hails thee to thy home,
Or sees thy sails approach thro' ocean's foam;
No more she wanders on the lonely shores,
And thinks she hears the distant—striking oars.
She sits within the hall and hears waves roar,
She sees the arms of him that is no more—

In tender sorrow thy fond sighs arise!
Fair maid of Sorglan, sorrow dims thy eyes!

Blest, chief of Tura, be thy mighty soul!
Awful in battle did thy terrors roll.

Calmar the son of Martha.—His death is related at large in the third book of Fingal—he was the only son of Matha, and the family was extinct in him. The seat of the family was on the banks of the river Lara; near the place where Cuthullin lay; which circumstance suggested to him the lamentation of Alcletha over her foe. Alcletha is a poetic name for Matha.

Alcletha speaks. Calmar had promised to return by a certain day; and his mother and sister Alona are represented looking with impatience towards that quarter, where they expected Calmar would make his appearance.

Alcletha speaks describing her sons bravery.

She addresses herself to Larmi Calmar's friend who had returned with the news of his death.

Some great Deity of the northern nations.

Couloch who was afterwards very famous for his exploits in Ireland.

Every stanza of this song over Cuthullin's tomb closes with some remarkable title of the hero, which was the custom in funeral elegies.