Oh! I will wear it next my heart;

"T will bind my soul in bonds to thee:
From me again 't will ne'er depart,
But mingle in the grave with me,

The dew I gather from thy lip
Is not so dear to me as this;
That I but for a moment sip,

And banquet on a transient bliss:
This will recall each youthful scene,

E'en when our lives are on the wane;
The leaves of Love will still be green,
When Memory bids them bud again.
Oh! little lock of golden huc,

In gently waving ringlet curl'd,
By the dear head on which you grew,
I would not lose you for a world.
Not though a thousand more adorn
The polish'd brow where once you shone,
Like rays which gild a cloudless morn,
Beneath Columbia's fervid zone.

1806. [First published, 1833.]

REMEMBRANCE.

'Tis done! I saw it in my dreams:
No more with Hope the future beams;
My days of happiness are few:
Chill'd by misfortune's wintry blast,
My dawn of life is overcast,

Love, Hope, and Joy, alike adieu !--
Would I could add Remembrance too!
1806. [First published, 1830.]

LINES

ADDRESSED TO THE REV. J. T. BECHER,
ON HIS ADVISING THE AUTHOR TO MIX
MORE WITH SOCIETY.

Dear Becher, you tell me to mix with mankind; -
I cannot deny such a precept is wise;
But retirement accords with the tone of my mind:
I will not descend to a world I despise.
Did the senate or camp my exertions require,
Ambition might prompt me, at once, to go forth;
When infancy's years of probation expire,
Perchance I may strive to distinguish my birth.
The fire in the cavern of Etna conceal'd,
Still mantles unseen in its secret recess;-
At length, in a volume terrific reveal'd,
No torrent can quench it, no bounds can repress.
Oh! thus, the desire in my bosom for fame

Bids me live but to hope for posterity's praise.
Could I soar with the phoenix on pinions of flame,
With him I would wish to expire in the blaze.
For the life of a Fox, of a Chatham the death,
What censure, what danger, what woe would I
Their lives did not end when they yielded their breath;
Their glory illumines the gloom of their grave.
Yet why should I mingle in Fashion's full herd?

brave!

Why crouch to her leaders, or cringe to her rules? Why bend to the proud, or applaud the absurd? Why search for delight in the friendship of fools? I have tasted the sweets and the bitters of love; In friendship I early was taught to believe; My passion the matrons of prudence reprove; I have found that a friend may profess, yet deceive.

of Bayard, Nemours, Edward the Black Prince, and, in more modern times, the fame of Marlborough, Frederick the Great, Count Saxe, Charles of Sweden, &c., are fami.

llar to every historical reader, but the exact places of their birth are known to a very small proportion of their ad

mirers.

THE DEATH OF CALMAR AND ORLA. AN IMITATION OF MACPHERSON'S OSSIAN.1 Dear are the days of youth! Age dwells on their remembrance through the mist of time. In the twilight he recalls the sunny hours of morn. He lifts his spear with trembling hand. "Not thus feebly did I raise the steel before my fathers!" Past is the race of heroes. But their fame rises on the harp; their souls ride on the wings of the wind; they hear the sound through the sighs of the storm, and rejoice in their hall of clouds! Such is Calmar. The grey stone marks his narrow house. He looks down from eddying tempests: he rolls his form in the whirlwind, and hovers on the blast of the mountain.

In Morven dwelt the chief; a beam of war to Fingal. His steps in the field were marked in blood. Lochlin's sons had fled before his angry spear; but mild was the eye of Calmar; soft was the flow of his yellow locks: they streamed like the meteor of the night. No maid was the sigh of his soul: his thoughts were given to friendship, to dark-haired Orla, destroyer of heroes! Equal were their swords in battle; but fierce was the pride of Orla:-gentle alone to Calmar. Together they dwelt in the cave of Oithona.

From Lochlin, Swaran bounded o'er the blue waves. Erin's sons fell beneath his might. Fingal roused his hosts throng on the green hills. They come to the aid chiefs to combat. Their ships cover the ocean. Their

of Erin.

Night rose in clouds. Darkness veils the armies: but the blazing oaks gleam through the valley. The sons of Lochlin slept: their dreams were of blood. They lift the spear in thought, and Fingal flies. Not so the host of Morven. To watch was the post of Orla. Calmar stood by his side. Their spears were in their hands. Fingal called his chiefs: they stood around. The king was in the midst. Grey were his locks, but strong was the arm of the king. Age withered not his powers. "Sons of Morven," said the hero, "to-morrow we meet the foe. But where is Cuthullin, the shield of Erin? He rests in the halls of Tura; he knows not of our coming. Who will speed through Lochlin to the hero, and call the chief to arms? The path is by the swords of foes; but many are my heroes. They are thunderl olts of war. Speak, ye chiefs! Who will arise?"

"Son of Trenmor! mine be the deed," said darkhaired Orla, "and mine alone. What is death to me? I love the sleep of the mighty, but little is the danger. The sons of Lochlin dream. I will seek car-borne Cuthullin. If I fall, raise the song of bards; and lay me by the stream of Luba."-"And shalt thou fall alone?" said fair-haired Calmar. "Wilt thou leave thy friend afar? Chief of Oithona! not feeble is my arm in fight. Could I see thee die, and not lift the spear? No, Orla! ours has been the chase of the roebuck, and the feast of shells; ours be the path of danger: ours has been the cave of Oithona; ours be the narrow dwelling on the banks of Lubar." "Calmar," said the chief of Oithona, "why should thy yellow locks be darkened in the dust of Erin? Let me fall alone. My father dwells in his hall of air: he will rejoice in his boy; but the blue-eyed Mora spreads the feast for her son in Morven. She listens to the steps

1 It may be necessary to observe, that the story, though considerably varied in the catastrophe, is taken from "Nisus and Euryalus," of which episode a translation is already given in the present volume.

They quit the circle of the chiefs. Their steps are to the host of Lochlin. The dying blaze of oak dim twinkles through the night. The northern star points the path to Tura. Swaran, the king, rests on his lonely hill. Here the troops are mixed: they frown in sleep; their shields beneath their heads. Their swords gleam at distance in heaps. The fires are faint; their embers fail in smoke. All is hushed; but the gale sighs on the rocks above. Lightly wheel the heroes through the slumbering band. Half the journey is past, when Mathon, resting on his shield, meets the eye of Orla. It rolls in flame, and glistens through the shade. His spear is raised on high. "Why dost thou bend thy brow, chief of Oithona ?" said fair-haired Calmar: "we are in the midst of foes. Is this a time for delay?" "It is a time for vengeance," said Orla of the gloomy brow. "Mathon of Lochlin sleeps: seest thou his spear? Its point is dim with the gore of my father. The blood of Mathon shall reek on mine; but shall I slay him sleeping, son of Mora? No! he shall feel his wound: my fame shall not soar on the blood of slumber. Rise, Mathon, rise! The son of Connal calls; thy life is his; rise to combat." Mathon starts from sleep; but did he rise alone? No: the gathering chiefs bound on the plain. "Fly! Calmar, fly!" said dark-haired Orla. Mathon is mine. I shall die in joy but Lochlin crowds around. Fly through the shade of night." Orla turns. The helm of Mathon is cleft; his shield falls from his arm: he shudders in his blood. He rolls by the side of the blazing oak. Strumon sees him fall: his wrath rises: his weapon glitters on the head of Orla: but a spear pierced his eye. His brain gushes through the wound, and foams on the spear of Calmar. As roll the waves of the. Ocean on two mighty barks of the north, so pour the men of Lochlin on the chiefs. As, breaking the surge in foam, proudly steer the barks of the north, so rise the chiefs of Morven on the scattered crests of Lochlin. The din of arms came to the ear of Fingal. He strikes his shield; his sons throng around; the people pour along the heath. Ryno bounds in joy. Ossian stalks in his arms. Oscar shakes the spear. The eagle wing of Fillan floats on the wind. Dreadful is the clang of death! many are the widows of Lochlin! Morven prevails in its strength.

Morn glimmers on the hills: no living foe is seen; but the sleepers are many; grim they lie on Erin The breeze of ocean lifts their locks; yet they do not awake. The hawks scream above their prey.

Whose yellow locks wave o'er the breast of a chief? Bright as the gold of the stranger, they mingle with the dark hair of his friend. 'Tis Calmar: he lies on the bosom of Orla. Theirs is one stream of blood. Fierce is the look of the gloomy Orla. He breathes not; but his eye is still a flame. It glares in death unclosed. His hand is grasne in Calmar's; but Calmar lives! he lives, thougn low. "Rise," said the king, "rise, son of Mora: 't is mine to heal the wounds of heroes. Calmar may yet bound on the hills of Morven.'

"Never more shall Calmar chase the deer of Morven with Orla," said the hero. "What were the chase to me alone? Who would share the spoils of battle with Calmar? Orla is at rest! Rough was thy soul, Orla!

L'AMITIE EST L'AMOUR SANS AILES.

Why should my anxious breast repine,
Because my youth is filed?

Days of delight may still be mine;
Affection is not dead.

In tracing back the years of youth,
One firm record, one lasting truth'

Celestial consolation brings;

Bear it, ye breezes, to the seat,
Where first my heart responsive beat,-
"Friendship is Love without his wings!"
Through few, but deeply chequer'd years,
What moments have been mine!
Now half obscured by clouds of tears,
Now bright in rays divine;
Howe'er my future doom be cast,
My soul, enraptured with the past,

To one idea fondly clings;
Friendship! that thought is all thine own,
Worth worlds of bliss, that thought alone
"Friendship is Love without his wings!"

Where yonder yew-trees lightly wave
Their branches on the gale,
Unheeded heaves a simple grave,

Which tells the common tale;
Round this unconscious schoolboys stray,
Till the dull knell of childish play

From yonder studious mansion rings;
But here whene'er my footsteps move,
My silent tears too plainly prove

"Friendship is Love without his wings!"

Oh, Love before thy glowing shrine
My early vows were paid;
My hopes, my dreams, my heart was thine,
But these are now decay'd;
For thine are pinions like the wind,
No trace of thee remains behind,
Except, alas! thy jealous stings.
Away, away! delusive power,
Thou shalt not haunt my coming hour;
Unless, indeed, without thy wings.

1 I fear Laing's late edition has completely overthrown every hope that Macpherson's Ossian might prove the translation of a series of poems complete in themselves but, while the imposture is discovered, the merit of the particularly, in some parts, turgid and bombastic diction. work remains undisputed, though not without faults

The present humble imitation will be pardoned by the admirers of the original as an attempt, however inferior, which evinces an attachment to their favourite author.

Seat of my youth!1 thy distant spire
Recalls each scene of joy;
My bosom glows with former fire,-
In mind again a boy.

Thy grove of elms, thy verdant hill,
Thy every path delights me still,

Each flower a double fragrance flings;
Again, as once, in converse gay,
Each dear associate seems to say,

"Friendship is Love without his wings!"

My Lycus ! 2 wherefore dost thou weep?
Thy falling tears restrain;
Affection for a time may sleep,

But, oh, 't will wake again.

Think, think, my friend, when next we meet,
Our long-wish'd interview, how sweet!

From this my hope of rapture springs;
While youthful hearts thus fondly swell,
Absence, my friend, can only tell,
"Friendship is Love without his wings!"

In one, and one alone deceived,
Did I my error mourn?

No- from oppressive bonds relieved,
I left the wretch to scorn.

I turn'd to those my childhood knew,
With feelings warm, with bosoms true,
Twined with my heart's according strings;
And till those vital chords shall break,
For none but these my breast shall wake
Friendship, the power deprived of wings!
Ye few! my soul, my life is yours,
My memory and my hope;
Your worth a lasting love ensures,
Unfetter'd in its scope;

From smooth deceit and terror sprung,
With aspect fair and honey'd tongue,
Let Adulation wait on kings;
With joy elate, by suares beset,
We, we, my friends, can ne'er forget
"Friendship is Love without his wings!"

Fictions and dreams inspire the bard
Who rolls the epic song;

Friendship and Truth be my reward-
To me no bays belong;

If laurell'd Fame but dwells with lies,
Me the enchantress ever flies,

Whose heart and not whose fancy sings;
Simple and young. I dare not feign;
Mine be the rude yet heartfelt strain,
"Friendship is Love without his wings!"
December, 1806.

THE PRAYER OF NATURE.3 Father of Light! great God of Heaven! Hear'st thou the accents of despair? Can guilt like man's be e'er forgiven? Can vice atone for crimes by prayer? Father of Light, on thee I call!

Thou see'st my soul is dark within; Thou who canst mark the sparrow's fall, Avert from me the death of sin. No shrine I seek, to sects unknown; Oh, point to me the path of truth! Thy dread omnipotence I own;

Spare, yet amend, the faults of youth. Let bigots rear a gloomy fane, Let superstition hail the pile, Let priests, to spread their sable reign, With tales of mystic rites beguile.

Shall man confine his Maker's sway

To Gothic domes of mouldering stone? Thy temple is the face of day;

Earth, ocean, heaven thy boundless throne. Shall man condemn his race to hell, Unless they bend in pompous form? Tell us that all, for one who fell, Must perish in the mingling storm? Shall each pretend to reach the skies, Yet doom his brother to expire, Whose soul a different hope supplies, Or doctrines less severe inspire? Shall these by creeds they can't expound, Prepare a fancied bliss or woe? Shall reptiles, grovelling on the ground, Their great Creator's purpose know? Shall those who live for self alone,

Whose years float on in daily crimeShall they by Faith for guilt atone, And live beyond the bounds of Time? Father! no prophet's laws I seek,Thy laws in Nature's works appear ; — I own myself corrupt and weak, Yet will I pray, for thou wilt hear! Thou, who canst guide the wandering star Through trackless realms of æther's space; Who calm'st the elemental war,

Whose hand from pole to pole I trace: Thou, who in wisdom placed me here, Who, when thou wilt, can take me hence, Ah! whilst I tread this earthly sphere,

Extend to me thy wide defence.

To Thee, my God, to Thee I call!
Whatever weal or woe betide,
By thy command I rise or fall,
In thy protection I confide.

If, when this dust to dust's restored,
My soul shall float on airy wing,
How shall thy glorious name adored
Inspire her feeble voice to sing!
But, if this fleeting spirit share
With clay the grave's eternal bed,
While life yet throbs I raise my prayer,
Though doom'd no more to quit the dead.
To Thee I breathe my humble strain,
Grateful for all thy mercies past,
And hope, my God, to Thee again
This erring life may fly at last.

December 29, 1806.

TO EDWARD NOEL LONG, ESQ.4

"Nil ego contulerim jocundo sanus amico."- Hor.

Dear Long, in this sequester'd scene,
While all around in slumber lie,
The joyous days which ours have been
Come rolling fresh on Fancy's eye;
Thus if amidst the gathering storm,
While clouds the darken'd noon deform,
Yon heaven assumes a varied glow,

I hail the sky's celestial bow,

Which spreads the sign of future peace,
And bids the war of tempests cease.

4 This young gentleman, who was with Lord Byron both at Harrow and Cambridge, afterwards entered the Guards, and served with distinction in the expedition to Copenhagen. He was drowned early in 1809, when on his way to join the army in the Peninsula; the transport in which he sailed being run foul of in the night by another of the convoy. "Long's father," says Lord Byron," wrote to me to write his son's epitaph. I promised - but I had not the heart to complete it. He was such a good, amiable being as rarely remains long in this world; with talent and accomplishments, too, to make him the more re gretted."-Byron Diary, 1821.

Ah! though the present brings but pain,
I think those days may come again;
Or if, in melancholy mood,
Some lurking envious fear intrude,
To check my bosom's fondest thought,
And interrupt the golden dream,
I crush the fiend with malice fraught,
And still indulge my wonted theme.
Although we ne'er again can trace,

In Granta's vale, the pedant's lore;
Nor through the groves of Ida chase
Our raptured visions as before,
Though Youth has flown on rosy pinion,
And Manhood claims his stern dominion-
Age will not every hope destroy,
But yield some hours of sober joy.

Yes, I will hope that Time's broad wing
Will shed around some dews of spring:
But if his scythe must sweep the flowers
Which bloom among the fairy bowers,
While smiling Youth delights to dwell,
And hearts with early rapture swell;
If frowning Age, with cold control,
Confines the current of the soul,
Congeals the tear of Pity's eye,
Or checks the sympathetic sigh,

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

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

But ne'er forget another's woe.
Yes, as you knew me in the days
O'er which Remembrance yet delays,
Still may I rove, untutor'd, wild,
And even in age at heart a child.

Though now on airy visions borne,

To you my soul is still the same. Oft has it been my fate to mourn,

And all my former joys are tame. But, hence ye hours of sable hue!

Your frowns are gone, my sorrows o'er: By every bliss my childhood knew,

I'll think upon your shade no more. Thus, when the whirlwind's rage is past, And caves their sullen roar enclose, We heed no more the wintry blast, When lull'd by zephyr to repose.

Full often has my infant Muse

Attuned to love her languid lyre; But now, without a theme to choose, The strains in stolen sighs expire. My youthful nymphs, alas! are flown; E is a wife, and C- a mother,

And Carolina sighs alone,

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

Can now no more my love recall:

In truth, dear Long, 't was time to flee;
For Cora's eye will shine on all.
And though the sun, with genial rays,
His beams alike to all displays,
And every lady's eye's a sun,
These last should be confined to one.
The soul's meridian don't become her,
Whose sun displays a general summer!
Thus faint is every former flame,
And passion's self is now a name.
As, when the ebbing flames are low,

The aid which once improved their light, And bade them burn with fiercer glow, Now quenches all their sparks in night; Thus has it been with passion's fires,

As many a boy and girl remembers, While all the force of love expires, Extinguish'd with the dying embers.

But now, dear Long, 't is midnight's noon, And clouds obscure the watery moon,

Whose beauties I shall not rehearse,
Described in every stripling's verse;
For why should I the path go o'er,
Which every bard has trod before?
Yet cre yon silver lamp of night

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

And chased away the gloom profound, I trust that we, my gentle friend, Shall see her rolling orbit wend Above the dear-loved peaceful seat, Which once contain'd our youth's retreat; 1 And then with those our childhood knew, We'll mingle in the festive crew; While many a tale of former day Shall wing the laughing hours away; And all the flow of souls shall pour The sacred intellectual shower, Nor cease till Luna's waning horn Scarce glimmers through the mist of morn.

TO A LADY.2

Oh! had my fate been join'd with thine,
As once this pledge appear'd a token,
These follies had not then been mine,
For then my peace had not been broken.3
To thee these early faults I owe,

To thee, the wise and old reproving:
They know my sins, but do not know
"T was thine to break the bonds of loving.
For once, my soul, like thine, was pure,
And all its rising fires could smother;
But now thy vows no more endure,
Bestow'd by thee upon another.
Perhaps his peace 1 could destroy,
And spoil the blisses that await him,
Yet let my rival smile in joy,

For thy dear sake I cannot hate him.
Ah! since thy angel form is gone,

My heart no more can rest with any ; But what it sought in thee alone,

Attempts, alas! to find in many. Then fare thee well, deceitful maid!

"T were vain and fruitless to regret thee; Nor Hope, nor Memory yield their aid, But Pride may teach me to forget thee.

Yet all this giddy waste of years,

This tiresome round of palling pleasures; These varied loves, these matron's fears,

These thoughtless strains to passion's measures—

If thou wert mine, had all been hush'd:-
This cheek, now pale from early riot,
With passion's hectic ne'er had flush'd,"
But bloom'd in calm domestic quiet.

Yes, once the rural scene was sweet,

For Nature seem'd to smile before thee; 4

1 The two friends were both passionately attached to Harrow; and sometimes made excursions thither to gether, to revive their schoolboy recollections.-E.

2 Mrs. Musters. -- E.

3 "Our union would have healed feuds in which blood had been shed by our fathers-it would have joined lands broad and rich it would have joined at least one heart, and two persons not ill-matched in years (she is two years my elder), and--and--and--what has been the result?" --Byron Diary, 1821.

4 "Our meetings," says Lord Byron in 1822, "were stolen ones, and a gate leading from Mr. Chaworth's grounds to those of my mother was the place of our inter views. But the ardour was all on my side. I was seri ous; she was volatile: she liked me as a younger brother and treated and laughed at me as a boy; she, however gave me her picture, and that was something to mak verses upon. Had I married her, perhaps the whol tenour of my life would have been different."-E.