And though some trifling share of praise, To me were doubly dear; GRANTA, A MEDLEY. Αργυρέκις λόγχαισι μάχου και παντα Κρατήσαις. On! Could LE SAGE'S' demon's gift Be realized at my desire, This night my trembling form he'd lift, Pedantic inmates full display; Petty and Plm➜➜sten survey; Who canvass there with all their might, Lo! candidates and voters lie, All lull'd in sleep, a goodly number! A race renown'd for piety, Whose conscience won't disturb their slumber Lord H——, indeed, may not demur, Fellows are sage, reflecting men! But very seldom,-now and then. Some pretty livings in disposal; And, therefore, smiles on his proposal. Now, from the soporific scene I'll turn mine eye, as night grows later, To view, unheeded and unseen, The studious sons of Alma Mater. There, in apartments small and damp, Goes late to bed, yet early rises. With all the honours of his college, Thus seek's unprofitable knowledge; Who sacrifices hours of rest, To scan, precisely, metres Attic, In solving problems mathematic; Who reads false quantities in Sele, 2 Or puzzles o'er the deep triangle, In barbarous Latin3 doom'd to wrangle; The Diable Boiteux of La SAGE, where Asmodeus, the demon, places Don Cleofas on an elevated situation, and unroofs the houses for bis inspection. * Sele's publication on Greek metres displays considerable talent and ingenuity, but, as might be expected in so difficult a work, is |not remarkable for accuracy. Renouncing every pleasing page From authors of historic use; Preferring to the letter'd sage The square of the hypothenuse.' Still, harmless are these occupations, That hurt none but the hapless student, Compared with other recreations, Which bring together the imprudent; Whose daring revels shock the sight, When vice and infamy combine, When drunkenness and dice unite, And every sense is steep'd in wine. Not so the methodistic crew, Who plans of reformation lay: In humble attitude they sue, And for the sins of others pray. Forgetting that their pride of spirit, Their exultation in their trial, Detracts most largely from the merit Of all their boasted self-denial. 'Tis morn,-from these I turn my sight: What scene is this which meets the eye? A numerous crowd, array'd in white, Across the green in numbers fly. Loud rings, in air, the chapel bell; 'Tis hush'd: What sounds are these I hear? The organ's soft celestial swell Rolls deeply on the listening ear. To this is joined the sacred song, The royal minstrel's hallow'd strain; To such a set of croaking sinners. If David, when his toils were ended, Had heard these blockheads sing before him, To us his psalms had ne'er descended, In furious mood he would have tore 'em. The luckless Israelites, when taken By some inhuman tyrant's order, But, if I scribble longer now, The deuce a soul will stay to read; 'T is almost time to stop indeed. 1806. The discovery of Pythagoras, that the square of the hypothenuse is equal to the squares of the other two sides of a right-angled tri The Latin of the schools is of the CANINE SPECIES, and not very angle. intelligible. On a Saint day the students wear surplices in chapel. LACHIN Y GAIR. LACHINY GAIR, or, as it is pronounced in the Erse, Locn NA GARR, towers proudly pre-eminent in the Northern Highlands, near Invercauld. One of our modern tourists mentions it as the highest mountain, perhaps, in Great Britain; be this as it may, it is certainly one of the most sublime and picturesque amongst our Caledonian Alps. Its appearance is of a dusky hue, but the summit is the seat of eternal snows. Near Lachin y Gair I spent some of the early part of my life, the recollection of which has given birth to the following Stanzas. AWAY, ye gay landscapes, ye gardens of roses! Round their white summits though elements war, Though cataracts foam, 'stead of smooth-flowing fountains, I sigh for the valley of dark Loch na Garr. My cap was the bonnet, my cloak was the plaid; ' On chieftains long perish'd my memory ponder'd, As daily I strode through the pine-cover'd glade : I sought not my home till the day's dying glory Gave place to the rays of the bright polar star; Disclosed by the natives of dark Loch na Garr. And rides on the wind o'er his own Highland vale : Round Loch na Garr, while the stormy mist gathers, Wiater presides in his cold icy car; Clouds there encircle the forms of my fathers They dwell in the tempests of dark Loch na Garr. << Ill-starr'd, though brave, did no visions foreboding Tell you that Fate had forsaken your cause?»> Ah! were you destined to die at Culloden, 3 Victory crown'd not your fall with applause: Still were you happy, in death's early slumber You rest with your clan, in the caves of Braemar ; The Pibroch resounds to the piper's loud number Your deeds on the echoes of dark Loch na Garr. Years have roll'd on, Loch na Garr, since I left you; Years must elapse ere I tread you again; Nature of verdure and flowers has bereft you, Yet, still, are you dearer than Albion's plain. England! thy beauties are tame and domestic To one who has roved on the mountains afar; Oh! for the crags that are wild and majestic, 4 The steep frowning glories of dark Loch na Garr ! This word is erroneously pronounced PLAD: the proper pronunciation (according to the Scotch) is shown by the orthography. * I allude here to my maternal ancestors, the GORDONS, many of whom fought for the unfortunate Prince Charles, better known by the name of the Pretender. This branch was nearly allied by blood, as well as attachment, to the STEWARTS. George, the second Earl of Huntley, married the Princess Annabella Stewart, daughter of James the First of Scotland; by her he left four sons: the third, Sir William Gordon, I have the honour to claim as one of my progenitors. 3 Whether any perished in the battle of Culloden I am not certain ; but as many fell in the insurrection, I have used the name of the principal action, pars pro toto.» 4 A tract of the Highlands so called; there is also a Castle of Braemar. The Lagpipe. TO ROMANCE. PARENT of golden dreams, Romance! Thy votive train of girls and boys: And even woman's smiles are true. And must we own thee but a name, And from thy hall of clouds descend; Nor find a sylph in every dame, 1 A Pylades in every friend? To mingling bands of fairy elves: And friends have feelings for-themselves. No more on fancied pinions soar: And think that eye to Truth was dear, And melt beneath a wanton's tear. Far from thy motley court I fly, And sickly Sensibility; For any pangs excepting thine; To steep in dew thy gaudy shrine: With cypress crown'd, arrayed in weeds, To mourn a swain for ever gone, But bends not now before thy throne. With fancied flames and frenzy glow: From you a sympathetic strain. It is hardly necessary to add, that Pylades was the companion of Orestes, and a partner in one of those friendships which, with those of Achilles and Patroc us, Nisus and Euryalus, Damon and Pythias, have been handed down to posterity as remarkable instances of attachments which, in all probability, never existed, beyond the imagination of the poet, the page of an historian, or modern novelist. Adieu! fond race, a long adieu! Where unlamented you must lie: Convulsed by gales you cannot weather, Where you, and eke your gentle queen, Alas! must perish altogether. ELEGY ON NEWSTEAD ABBEY.' It is the voice of years that are gone! they roll before me with all their deeds. OSSIAN. NEWSTEAD! fast-falling, once resplendent dome! No mail-clad serfs,3 obedient to their lord, Or Else might inspiring Fancy's magic eye Retrace their progress, through the lapse of time; But not from thee, dark pile! departs the Chief, Yes, in thy gloomy cells and shades profound, A monarch bade thee from that wild arise, Sought shelter in the priest's protecting cowl. As one poem on this subject is printed in the beginning, the author had originally no intention of inserting the following: it is now added at the particular request of some friends. 'Benry II. founded Newstead soon after the murder of Thomas-aBecket. This word is used by Walter Scott, in his poem, The Wild Huntsman, as synonymous with Vassal. • The Red Cross was the badge of the Crusaders. As Gloaming, the Scottish word for Twilight, is far more poetical, and has been recommended by many eminent literary men, particularly Dr Moore, in his Letters to Burns, I have ventured to use it on account of its harmony. The Priory was dedicated to the Virgin. Years roll on years—to ages, ages yield- Till royal sacrilege their doom decreed. And bids devotion's hallow'd echoes cease. No friend, no home, no refuge but their God. Of changing sentinels the distant hum, The mirth of feasts, the clang of burnish'd arms, The braying trumpet, and the hoarser drum, Unite in concert with increased alarms. 19 An abbey once, a regal fortress 2 now, Ah! vain defence! the hostile traitor's siege, The blood of traitors smears the purple plain; The monarch's friend, the monarch's hope, to save. Trembling she snatch'd him3 from the unequal strife, In other fields the torrent to repel, For nobler combats here reserved his life, To lead the band where godlike FALKLAND 4 fell. From thee, poor pile! to lawless plunder given, While dying groans their painful requiem sound, Far different incense now ascends to heavenSuch victims wallow on the gory ground. There, many a pale and ruthless robber's corse, Noisome and ghast, defiles thy sacred sod; O'er mingling man, and horse commix'd with horse, Corruption's heap, the savage spoilers trod. Graves, long with rank and sighing weeds o'erspread, Ransack'd, resign perforce their mortal mould; From ruffian fangs escape not e'en the dead, Raked from repose, in search of buried gold. At the Dissolution of the Monasteries, Henry VIII. bestowed Newstead Abbey on Sir John Byron. 2 Newstead sustained a considerable siege in the war between Charles I. and his Parliament. 3 Lord Byron and his brother Sir William held high commands in the royal army; the former was General in Chief in Ireland, Lieutenant of the Tower, and Governor to James Duke of York, afterwards the unhappy James II. The latter had a principal sharein many actions. Vide Clarendon, Hume, etc. 4 Lucius Cary, Lord Viscount Falkland, the most accomplished man of his age, was killed at the battle of Newberry, charging in the ranks of Lord Byron's regiment of cavalry. Ilush'd is the harp, unstrung the warlike lyre, And sable Horror guards the massy door. What satellites declare her dismal reign! And Nature triumphs as the tyrant dies. He guides through gentle seas the prow of state Loudly carousing, bless their lord's return; Unwonted foliage mantles o'er the trees; Exulting shouts announce the finish'd race. Ah! happy days! too happy to endure! Such simple sports our plain forefathers knew: No splendid vices glitter'd to allure Their joys were many, as their cares were few. From these descending, sons to sires succeed, Time steals along, and Death uprears his dart; Another chief impels the foaming steed, Another crowd the panting hart. pursue Newstead! what saddening change of scene is thine! Thy yawning arch betokens slow decay; The last and youngest of a noble line Now holds thy mouldering turrets in his sway. Deserted now, he scans thy gray-worn towersThy vaults, where dead of feudal ages sleep This is an historical fact. A violent tempest occurred immediately subsequent to the death, or interment, of Cromwell, which occasioned many disputes between his partisans and the cavaliers; both interpreted the circumstance into divine interposition, but whether as approbation or condemnation, we leave to the casuists of that age to decide. I have made such use of the occurrence as suited the subject of my poem. * Charles II. Thy cloisters, pervious to the wintry showers- Cherish'd affection only bids them flow; Or gewgaw grottoes of the vainly great; Thee to eradiate with meridian ray; TO E. N. L. ESQ. Nil ego contulerim jucundo sanus amico. DEAR L-, in this sequester'd scene, I crush the fiend with malice fraught, HOR. E. 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 To sooth its wonted heedless flow, But ne'er forget another's woe. Still, may I rove untutor'd, wild, And, even in age, at heart a child. Though now on airy visions borne, Your frowns are gone, my sorrow 's o'er; By every bliss my childhood knew, I'll think upon your shade no more. Attuned to love her languid lyre; And Mary's given to another; As many a boy and girl remembers, While all the force of love expires, Extinguish'd with the dying embers. But now, dear L-, 't is midnight's noon, 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-lov'd peaceful seat, Which once contain'd our youth's retreat; And then, with those our childhood knew, We ll mingle with the festive crew; While many a tale of former day Shall wing the laughing hours away; And all the flow of soul shall pour The sacred intellectual shower, Nor cease, till Luna's waning horn Scarce glimmers through the mist of Morn. ΤΟ --. On! had my fate been join'd with thine, To thee, the wise and old reproving; '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 I could destroy, And spoil the blisses that await him; Yet let my rival smile in joy, For thy dear sake I cannot hate him. Ah! since thy angel form is gone, My heart no more can rest with any; 'T were vain and fruitless to regret thee; This tiresome round of palling pleasures, If thou wert mine, had all been hush'd; Yes, once the rural scene was sweet, For nature seem'd to smile before thee; And once my breast abhorr'd deceit, For then it beat but to adore thee. To think would drive my soul to madness; STANZAS. I WOULD I were a careless child, Or bounding o'er the dark blue wave. Accords not with the free-born soul, I hate the touch of servile hands I hate the slaves that cringe around: Sassenagh, or Saxon, a Gaelic word signifying either Lowland or English. |