Place me along the rocks I love,

Which sound to ocean's wildest roar;

I ask but this--again to rove

Through scenes my youth hath known before. Few are my years, and yet I feel

The world was ne'er design'd for me; Ah! why do darkening shades conceal

The hour when man must cease to be?
Once I beheld a splendid dream,

A visionary scene of bliss;
Truth! wherefore did thy hated beam
Awake me to a world like this?

I loved-but those I loved are gone;
Had friends-my early friends are fled;
How cheerless feels the heart alone,

When all its former hopes are dead!
Though gay companions o'er the bowl
Dispel awhile the sense of ill,
Though Pleasure stirs the maddening soul,
The heart-the heart is lonely still.
How dull to hear the voice of those

Whom Rank or Chance, whom Wealth or Power, Have made, though neither friends nor foes, Associates of the festive hour.

Give me again a faithful few,

In

years and feelings still the same,
And I will fly the midnight crew,
Where boisterous Joy is but a name.
And Woman! lovely Woman, thou,
My hope, my comforter, my all!
How cold must be my bosom now,
When e'en thy smiles begin to pall!
Without a sigh would I resign

This busy scene of splendid woe,
To make that calm contentment mine

Which Virtue knows, or seems to know.
Fain would I fly the haunts of men-
I seek to shun, not hate mankind;
My breast requires the sullen glen,

Whose gloom may suit a darken'd mind. Oh! that to me the wings were given

Which bear the turtle to her nest! Then would I cleave the vault of Heaven, To flee away and be at rest.1

LINES

WRITTEN BENEATH AN ELM IN THE CHURCHYARD
OF HARROW-ON-THE-HILL.
SEPT. 2, 1807.

SPOT of my youth! whose hoary branches sigh,
Swept by the breeze that fans thy cloudless sky;
Where now alone I muse, who oft have trod,
With those I loved, thy soft and verdant sod;
With those who, scatter'd far, perchance deplore,
Like me,
the happy scenes they knew before:
Oh! as I trace again thy winding hill,
Mine eyes admire, my heart adores thee still,
Thou drooping Elm! beneath whose boughs I lay,
And frequent mused the twilight hours away;
Where, as they once were wont, my limbs recline,
But ah! without the thoughts which then were mine :
'Psalm lv, v. 6. And I said, Oh! that I had wings like a dove,
then would I fly away and be at rest. This verse also constitutes
a part of the most beautiful anthem in our language.

How do thy branches moaning to the blast,
Invite the bosom to recal the past;

And seem to whisper, as they gently swell,
«Take, while thou canst, a lingering last farewell!»
When Fate shall chill, at length, this fever'd breast,
And calm its cares and passions into rest,
Oft have I thought 't would sooth my dying hour,
If aught may sooth when life resigns her
power,
To know some humbler grave, some narrow cell,
Would hide my bosom where it loved to dwell:
With this fond dream methinks 't were sweet to die-
And here it lingered, here my heart might lie;
Here might I sleep, where all my hopes arose,
Scene of my youth, and couch of my repose:
For ever stretch'd beneath this mantling shade,
Press'd by the turf where once my childhood play'd,
Wrapt by the soil that veils the spot I loved,
Mix'd with the earth o'er which my footsteps moved,
Blest by the tongues that charm'd my youthful ear,
Mourn'd by the few my soul acknowledged here,
Deplored by those in early days allied,

And unremember'd by the world beside.

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 recals 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 gray 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 locksthey stream'd 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 over the blue waves. Erin's sons fell beneath his might. Fingal roused his chiefs to combat. Their ships cover the ocean! Their hosts throng on the green hills. They come to the aid 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. Gray were his locks, but strong was the arm of the king. Age wither'd not his powers.

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 has been already given.

< 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 thunderbolts of war. Speak, ye chiefs! who will arise ?»> Son of Treamor, 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 Lubar.»-« And shalt thou fall alone?» said fair-hair'd 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, Oria! ours has been the chase of the roe-buck, 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 of the hunter on the heath, and thinks it is the tread of Calmar. Let him not say, Calmar is fallen by the steel of Lochlin; he died with gloomy Orla, the chief of the dark-brow.' Why should tears dim the azure eye of Mora? Why should her voice curse Orla, the destroyer of Calmar? Live, Calmar, live to raise my stone of moss; live to revenge me in the blood of Lochlin! Join the song of bards above my grave. Sweet will be the song of death to Orla, from the voice of Calmar. My ghost shall smile on the notes of praise.»-« Orla!» said the son of Mora, « could I raise the song of death to my friend? Could I give his fame to the winds? No; my heart would speak in sighs; faint and broken are the sounds of sorrow. Orla! our souls shall hear the song together. One cloud shall be ours on high; the bards will mingle the names of Orla and Calmar.»

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 eyle of Oria. 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 darkhaired 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 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 grasped in Calmar's; but Calmar lives; he lives, though 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! yet soft to me as the dew of morn. It glared on others in lightning; to me a silver beam of night. Bear my sword to blue-eyed Mora: let it hang in my empty hall. It is not pure from blood: but it could not save Orla. Lay me with my friend: raise the song when I am dark.»

They are laid by the stream of Lubar. Four gray stones mark the dwelling of Orla and Calmar.

When Swaran was bound, our sails rose on the blue waves. The winds gave our barks to Morven. The Bards raised the song.

<< What form rises on the roar of clouds? whose dark ghost gleams on the red streams of tempests? his voice rolls on the thunder. 'Tis Orla; the brown chief of Oithona. He was unmatch'd in war. Peace to thy soul, Orla! thy fame will not perish. Nor thine, Calmar! lovely wast thou, son of blue-eyed Mora; but not harmless was thy sword. It hangs in thy cave. The ghosts of Lochlin shriek around its steel. Hear thy praise, Calmar! it dwells on the voice of the mighty. Thy name shakes on the echoes of Morven. Then raise thy fair locks, son of Mora; spread them on the arch of the rainbow, and smile through the tears of the storm.» 1

'I fear Laing's late edition has completely overthrown every hope that Macpberson's Ossian might prove the Translation of a series of Poems, complete in themselves; but, while the imposture is discovered, the merit of the work remains undisputed, though not without faults, particularly, in some parts, turgid and bombastic diction. The present humble imitation will be pardoned by the admirers of

the original, as an attempt, however inferior, which evinces an attachment to their favourite author.

Hours of Idleness; a Series of Poems, original and translated. By GEORGE GORDON, LORD BYRON, a Minor. Svo. pp. 200.-Newark, 1807.

THE poesy of this young Lord belongs to the class which neither gods nor men are said to permit. Indeed, we do not recollect to have seen a quantity of verse with so few deviations in either direction from that exact standard. His effusions are spread over a dead flat, and can no more get above or below the level, than if they were so much stagnant water. As an extenuation of this offence, the noble author is peculiarly forward in pleading minority. We have it in the title-page, and on the very back of the volume; it follows his name like a favourite part of his style. Much stress is laid upon it in the preface, and the poems are connected with this general statement of his case, by particular dates, substantiating the age at which each was written. Now, the law upon the point of minority we hold to be perfectly clear. It is a plea available only to the defendant; no plaintiff can offer it as a supplementary ground of action. Thus, if any suit could be brought against Lord Byron, for the purpose of compelling him to put into court a certain quantity of poetry, and if judgment were given against him, it is highly probable that an exception would be taken were he to deliver for poetry the contents of this volume. To this he might plead minority; but, as he now makes voluntary tender of the article, he hath no right to sue, on that ground, for the price in good current praise, should the goods be unmarketable. This is our view of the Jaw on the point, and, we dare to say, so will it be ruled. Perhaps, however, in reality, all that he tells us about his youth is rather with a view to increase our wonder, than to soften our censures. He possibly means to say, « See how a minor can write! This poem was actually composed by a young man of eighteen, and this by one of only sixteen!»-But, alas! we all remember the poetry of Cowley at ten, and Pope at twelve; and so far from hearing, with any degree of surprise, that very poor verses were written by a youth from his leaving school to his leaving college, inclusive, we really believe this to be the most common of all occurrences; that it happens in the life of nine men in ten who are edueated in England; and that the tenth man writes better verse than Lord Byron.

His other plea of privilege our author rather brings forward in order to waive it. He certainly, however, does allude frequently to his family and ancestors— sometimes in poetry, sometimes in notes; and while giving up his claim on the score of rank, he takes care to remember us of Dr Johnson's saying, that when a nobleman appears as an author, his merit should be handsomely acknowledged. In truth, it is this consideration only, that induces us to give Lord Byron's poems a place in our review, beside our desire to counsel him, that he do forthwith abandon poetry, and turn his talents, which are considerable, and his opportunities, which are great, to better account.

With this view, we must beg leave seriously to assure him, that the mere rhyming of the final syllable, even when accompanied by the presence of a certain number of feet; nay, although (which does not always happen) those feet should scan regularly, and have been all counted accurately upon the fingers, -it is not the whole art of poetry. We would entreat him to believe, that a certain portion of liveliness, somewhat of fancy, is necessary to constitute a poem, and that a poem in the present day, to be read, must contain at least one thought, either in a little degree different from the ideas of former writers, or differently expressed. We put it to his candour, whether there is any thing so deserving the name of poetry in verses like the following, written in 1806; and whether, if a youth of eighteen could say any thing so uninteresting to his ancestors, a youth of nineteen should publish it:

Shades of heroes, farewell! your descendant, departing
From the seat of his ancestors, bids you adieu!
Abroad or at home, your remembrance imparting
New courage, he'll think upon glory and you.

Though a tear dim his eye at this sad separation,
'Tis nature, not fear, that excites his regret:
Far distant be goes, with the same emulation;
The fame of his fathers be ne'er can forget.

That fame, and that memory, still will he cherish,
He vows that he ne'er will disgrace your renown;
Like you will he live, or like you will he perish;

When decay'd, may he mingle his dust with your own..

And so of instances in which former poets had failed. Thus, we do not think Lord Byron was made for translating, during his non-age, Adrian's Address to his Soul, when Pope succeeded so indifferently in the attempt. If our readers, however, are of another opinion, they may look at it.

Ah! gentle, fleeting, wavering sprite, Friend and associate of this clay!

To what unknown region Forne, Wilt thou now wing thy distant flight? No more with wonted humour gay,

Bat pallid, cheerless, and forlorn.

However, be this as it may, we fear his translations and imitations are great favourites with Lord Byron. We have them of all kinds, from Anacreon to Ossian; and, viewing them as school exercises, they may pass. Only, why print them after they have had their day and served their turn? And why call the thing in p. 79,' a translation, where two words (ɛw syɛtv) of the original are expanded into four lines, and the other tring in p. 81,2 where μezovutials mol' &pats, is rendered by means of six hobbling verses? As to his OsI sianic poesy, we are not very good judges, being, in truth, so moderately skilled in that species of composition, that we should, in all probability, be criticising some bit of the genuine Macpherson itself, were we to express our opinion of Lord Byron's rhapsodies. If, then, the following beginning of a «Song of Bards » is by his Lordship, we venture to object to it, as far as we can comprehend it. « What form rises on the roar of clouds, whose dark ghost gleams on the red stream of tempests? His voice rolls on the thunder; 't is Orla, the brown chief of Oithona. He was,» etc. After detaining this brown chief » some time, the bards conclude by giving him their advice to « raise his fair locks; » then to spread them on the arch of the rainbow; » and « to smile through the tears of the storm.»> Of this kind of thing there are no less than nine pages; and we can so far venture an opinion in their favour, that they look very like Macpherson; and we are positive they are pretty nearly as stupid and tiresome.

»

It is a sort of privilege of poets to be egotists; but they should use it as not abusing it; » and particularly one who piques himself (though indeed at the ripe age of nineteen) of being « an infant bard, » (The artless Helicon I boast is youth;»)—should either not know, or should seem not toļknow, so much about his own ancestry. Besides a poem above cited, on the family seat of the Byrons, we have another of eleven pages, on the self-same subject, introduced with an apology, he certainly had no intention of inserting it, but really << the particular request of some friends,» etc., etc. It concludes with five stanzas on himself, «the

er

See page 10.

1 Page 11.

last and youngest of a noble line.» There is a good deal also about his maternal ancestors, in a poem on Lachin y Gair, a mountain where he spent part of his youth, and might have learnt that pibroch is not a bagpipe, any more than duct means a fiddle.

As the author has dedicated so large a part of his volume to immortalize his employments at school and college, we cannot possibly dismiss it without presenting the reader with a specimen of these ingenious effusions. In an ode with a Greek motto, called Granta, we have the following magnificent stanzas:

There, in apartments small and damp,
The candidate for college prizes
Sits poring by the midnight lamp;

Goes late to bed, yet early rises.

Who reads false quantities in Sele,

Or puzzles o'er the deep triangle, Deprived of many a wholesome meal, In barbarous Latin doom'd to wrangle:

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.

We are sorry to hear so bad an account of the college psalmody as is contained in the following Attic

stanzas:

Our choir would scarcely be excused
Even as a band of raw beginners;
All mercy now must be refused

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!»

But whatever judgment may be passed on the poems of this noble minor, it seems we must take them as we find them, and be content; for they are the last we shall ever have from him. He is, at best, he says, but an intruder into the groves of Parnassus; he never lived in a garret, like thorough-bred poets; and « though he once roved a careless mountaineer in the Highlands of Scotland,» he has not of late enjoyed this advantage. Moreover, he expects no profit from his publication; and, whether it succeeds or not, «it is highly improbable, from his situation and pursuits hereafter, » that he should again condescend to become an author. Therefore, let us take what we get, and be thankful. What We are well off right have we poor devils to be nice? to have got so much from a man of this Lord's station, who does not live in a garret, but «has the sway » of Newstead Abbey. Again, we say, let us be thankful; and, with honest Sancho, bid God bless the giver, nor look the gift horse in the mouth.