No more his mention shall my verse
To him my tribute is already paid.
High, through those elms, with hoary branches
crown'd,
degrade,-Here Probus came, the rising fray to quell,
And here he falter'd forth his last farewell;
And here one night abroad they dared to roam,
While bold Pomposus bravely stay'd at home;'
While thus they speak, the hour must soon arrive,
When names of these, like ours, alone survive :
Yet a few years, one general wreck will whelm
The faint remembrance of our fairy realm.
Fair Ida's bower adorns the landscape round:
There Science, from her favour'd seat, surveys
The vale where rural Nature claims her praise;
To her awhile resigns her youthful train,
Who move in joy, and dance along the plain;
In scatter'd groups each favour'd haunt pursue;
Repeat old pastimes, and discover new;
Flush'd with his rays, beneath the noontide sun,
In rival bands between the wickets run,
Drive o'er the sward the ball with active force,
Or chase with nimble feet its rapid course.
But these with slower steps direct their way,
Where Brent's cool waves in limpid currents
While yonder few search out some green retreat,
And arbours shade them from the summer heat:
Others, again, a pert and lively crew, [view,
Some rough and thoughtless stranger placed in
With frolic quaint their antic jests expose,
And tease the grumbling rustic as he goes;
Nor rest with this, but many a passing fray
Tradition treasures for a future day: [fought,
'Twas here the gather'd swains for vengeance
And here we earn'd the conquest dearly bought;
Here have we fled before superior might,
And here renew'd the wild tumultuous fight.'
While thus our souls with early passions swell,
In lingering tones resounds the distant bell;
Th' allotted hour of daily sport is o'er,
And Learning beckons from her temple's door.
No splendid tablets grace her simple hall,
But ruder records fill the dusky wall;
There, deeply carved, behold! each tyro's name
Secures its owner's academic fame;
Dear honest face! though now we meet no
One last long look on what we were before-
Drew tears from eyes unused to weep with you.
Our first kind greetings, and our last adieu--
Through splendid circles, fashion's gaudy world,
Where folly's glaring standard waves unfurl'd,
I plunged to drown in noise my fond regret,
And all I sought or hoped was to forget. [face,
Vain wish! if chance some well-remember'd
Some old companion of my early race,
Advanced to claim his friend with honest joy,
My eyes, my heart, proclaim'd me still a boy;
The glittering scene, the fluttering groups
around,
Were quite forgotten when my friend was found;
The smiles of beauty-(for, alas! I've known
What 'tis to bend before Love's mighty throne)-
The smiles of beauty, though those smiles were
Could hardly charm me, when that friend was
[near;
My thoughts bewilder'd in the fond surprise,
The woods of Ida danced before my eyes
I saw the sprightly wanderers pour along,
I saw and join'd again the joyous throng;
Panting, again I traced her lofty grove,
And friendship's feelings triumph'd over love.
Yet why should I alone with such delight
Retrace the circuit of my former flight?
Is there no cause beyond the common claim
Here mingling view the names of sire and son-Endear'd to all in childhood's very name?
The one long graved, the other just begun :
These shall survive alike when son and sire
Beneath one common stroke of fate expire;
Perhaps their last memorial these alone,
Denied in death a monumental stone,
Whilst to the gale in mournful cadence wave
The sighing weeds that hide their nameless
grave.
And here my name, and many an early friend's,
Along the wall in lengthen'd line extends,
Though still our deeds amuse the youthful race,
Who tread our steps, and fill our former place,
Who young obey'd their lords in silent awe,
Whose nod commanded, and whose voice was
law;
And now, in turn, possess the reins of power,
To rule the little tyrants of an hour;
Though sometimes with the tales of ancient day,
They pass the dreary winter's eve away-
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Ah! sure some stronger impulse vibrates here,
Which whispers friendship will be doubly dear
To one who thus for kindred hearts must roam,
And seek abroad the love denied at home.
Those hearts, dear Ida, have I found in thee-
A home, a world, a paradise to me.
Stern Death forbade my orphan youth to share
The tender guidance of a father's care.
Can rank, or e'en a guardian's name, supply
The love which glistens in a father's eye?
For this can wealth or title's sound atone,
Made, by a parent's early loss, my own?
What brother springs a brother's love to seek?
What sister's gentle kiss has prest my check?
For me how dull the vacant moments rise,
To no fond bosom link'd by kindred ties!
Oft in the progress of some fleeting dream
Fraternal smiles collected round me seem ;
While still the visions to my heart are prest,
The voice of love will murmur in my rest:
I hear-I wake-and in the sound rejoice;
I hear again,-but ah! no brother's voice.
A hermit, midst of crowds, I fain would stray
Alone, though thousand pilgrims fill the way
While these a thousand kindred wreaths entwine,
I cannot call one single blossom mine :
What then remains? in solitude to groan,
To mix in friendship, or to sigh alone.
Thus must I cling to some endearing hand,
And none more dear than Ida's social band.
Alonzo! best and dearest of my friends,
Thy name ennobles him who thus commends:
From this fond tribute thou canst gain no praise:
The praise is his who now that tribute pays.
Oh! in the promise of thy early youth,
If hope anticipate the words of truth,
Some loftier bard shall sing thy glorious name,
To build his own upon thy deathless fame.
Friend of my heart, and foremost of the list
Of those with whom I lived supremely blest,
Oft have we drain'd the font of ancient lore;
Though drinking deeply, thirsting still the more.
Yet, when confinement's lingering hour was
done,
Our sports, our studies, and our souls were one:
Together we impell'd the flying ball;
Together waited in our tutor's hall;
Together join'd in cricket's manly toil,
Or shared the produce of the river's spoil;
Or, plunging from the green declining shore,
Our pliant limbs the buoyant billows bore;
In every element, unchanged, the same,
All, all that brothers should be, but the name.
Nor yet are you forgot, my jocund boy!
Davus, the harbinger of childish joy;
For ever foremost in the ranks of fun,
The laughing herald of the harmless pun;
Yet with a breast of such materials made-
Anxious to please, of pleasing half afraid;
Candid and liberal, with a heart of steel
In danger's path, though not untaught to feel.
Still I remember, in the factious strife,
The rustic's musket aim'd against my life:
High pois'd in air the massy weapon hung,
A cry of horror burst from every tongue;
Whilst I, in combat with another foe,
Fought on, unconscious of th' impending blow;
Your arm, brave boy, arrested his career-
Forward you sprung, insensible to fear;
Disarm'd and baffled by your conquering hand,
The grovelling savage roll'd upon the sand:
An act like this, can simple thanks repay?
Or all the labours of a grateful lay?
Oh no! whene'er my breast forgets the deed,
That instant, Davus, it deserves to bleed.
Lycus on me thy claims are justly great:
Thy milder virtues could my muse relate,
To thee alone, unrivall'd, would belong
The feeble efforts of my lengthen'd song.
Well canst thou boast, to lead in senates fit,
A Spartan firmness with Athenian wit :
Though yet in embryo these perfections shine,
Lycus! thy father's fame will soon be thine.
Where learning nurtures the superior mind,
What may we hope from genius thus refined!
When time at length matures thy growing years,
How wilt thou tower above thy fellow peers!
Prudence and sense, a spirit bold and free, With honour's soul, united beam in thee.
Shall fair Euryalus pass by unsung?
From ancient lineage, not unworthy sprung:
What though one sad dissension bade us part?
That name is yet embalm'd within my heart;
Yet at the mention does that heart rebound,
And palpitate, responsive to the sound.
Envy dissolved our ties, and not our will:
We once were friends,-I'll think we are so still.
A form unmatch'd in nature's partial mould,
A heart untainted, we in thee behold:
Yet not the senate's thunder thou shalt wield,
Nor seek for glory in the tented field;
To minds of ruder texture these be given-
Thy soul shall nearer soar its native heaven.
Haply, in polish'd courts might be thy seat,
But that thy tongue could never forge deceit :
The courtier's supple bow and sneering smile,
The flow of compliment, the slippery wile,
Would make that breast with indignation burn,
And all the glittering snares to tempt thee spurn.
Domestic happiness will stamp thy fate;
Sacred to love, unclouded e'er by hate;
The world admire thee, and thy friends adore;
Ambition's slave alone would toil for more.
Now last, but nearest, of the social band,
See honest, open, generous Cleon stand,
With scarce one speck to cloud the pleasing
No vice degrades that purest soul serene.
On the same day our studious race begun,
On the same day our studious race was run;
Thus side by side we pass'd our first career,
Thus side by side we strove for many a year;
At last concluded our scholastic life,
We neither conquer'd in the classic strife:
As speakers, each supports an equal name,'
And crowds allow to both a partial fame :
To soothe a youthful rival's early pride,
Though Cleon's candour would the palm divide,
Yet candour's self compels me now to own
Justice awards it to my friend alone.
Oh! friends regretted, scenes for ever dear,
Remembrance hails you with her warmest tear !
Drooping, she bends o'er pensive Fancy's urn,
To trace the hours which never can return;
Yet with the retrospection loves to dwell,
And soothe the sorrows of her last farewell!
Yet greets the triumph of my boyish mind,
As infant laurels round my head were twined,
When Probus' praise repaid my lyric song,
Or placed me higher in the studious throng;
Or when my first barangue received applause,
His sage instruction the primeval cause,
What gratitude to him my soul possest,
While hope of dawning honours fill'd my breast!
For all my humble fame, to him alone
The praise is due, who made that fame my own.
This alludes to the public speeches delivered at the school where the author was educated,
Oh! could I soar above these feeble lays,
These young effusions of my early days,
To him my inuse her noblest strain would give: The song might perish, but the theme might live.
Yet why for him the needless verse essay?
His honour'd name requires no vain display:
By every son of grateful Ida blest,
It finds an echo in each youthful breast;
A fame beyond the glories of the proud,
Or all the plaudits of the venal crowd.
Ida! not yet exhausted is the theme,
Nor closed the progress of my youthful dream.
How many a friend deserves the grateful strain!
What scenes of childhood still unsung remain !
Yet let me hush this echo of the past,
This parting song, the dearest and the last;
And brood in secret o'er those hours of joy,
To me a silent and a sweet employ,
While, future hope and fear alike unknown,
I think with pleasure on the past alone;
Yes, to the past alone my heart confine,
And chase the phantom of what once was mine.
Ida! still o'er thy hills in joy preside,
And proudly steer through time's eventful tide;
Still may thy blooming sons thy name revere,
Smile in thy bower, but quit thee with a tear,-
'That tear, perhaps, the fondest which will flow
O'er their last scene of happiness below.
Tell me, ye hoary few, who glide along,
The feeble veterans of some former throng,
Whose friends, like autumn leaves by tempests
whirl'd,
Are swept for ever from this busy world;
Revolve the fleeting moments of your youth,
While Care as yet withheld her venom'd tooth;
Say if remembrance days like these endears
Beyond the rapture of succeeding years?
Say, can ambition's fever'd dream bestow
So sweet a balm to soothe your hours of woe?
Can treasures, hoarded for some thankless son,
Can royal smiles, or wreaths by slaughter won,
Can stars or ermine, man's maturer toys
(For glittering baubles are not left to boys),
Recall one scene so much beloved to view
As those where Youth her garland twined for you?
Ah, no! amidst the gloomy calm of age
You turn with faltering hand life's varied page;
Feruse the record of your days on earth,
Unsullied only where it marks your birth;
Still lingering pause above each chequer'd leaf,
And blot with tears the sable lines of grief;
Where Passion o'er the theme her mantle threw,
Or weeping Virtue sigh'd a faint adieu;
But bless the scroll which fairer words adorn,
Traced by the rosy finger of the morn;
When Friendship bow'd before the shrine of
Truth,
ANSWER TO A BEAUTIFUL POEM,
ENTITLED 'THE COMMON LOT.'*
MONTGOMERY! true, the common lot
Of mortals lies in Lethe's wave;
Yet some shall never be forgot,
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Some shall exist beyond the grave
Unknown the region of his birth,'
The hero rolls the tide of war; t
Yet not unknown his martial worth,
Which glares a meteor from afar.
His joy or grief, his weal or woe,
Perchance may 'scape the page of fame;
Yet nations now unborn will know
The record of his deathless name.
The patriot's and the poet's frame
Must share the common tomb of all:
Their glory will not sleep the same;
That will arise, though empires fall.
The lustre of a beauty's eye
Assumes the ghastly stare of death; The fair, the brave, the good must die, And sink the yawning grave beneath. Once more the speaking eye revives,
Still beaming through the lover's strain; For Petrarch's Laura still survives : She died, but ne'er will die again. The rolling seasons pass away,
And Time, untiring, waves his wing; Whilst honour's laurels ne'er decay,
But bloom in fresh, unfading spring. All, all must sleep in grim repose,
Collected in the silent tomb:
The old and young, with friends and foes,
Festering alike in shrouds, consume.
The mouldering marble lasts its day,
Yet falls at length a useless fane;
To ruin's ruthless fangs a prey,
The wrecks of pillar'd pride remain.
What, though the sculpture be destroy'd,
From dark oblivion meant to guard;
A bright renown shall be enjoy'd
By those whose virtues claim reward. Then do not say the common lot
Of all lies deep in Lethe's wave; Some few who ne'er will be forgot Shall burst the bondage of the grave.
WHO PRESENTED THE AUTHOR WITH THE
VELVET BAND WHICH BOUND HER TRESSES. THIS Band, which bound thy yellow hair,
Is mine, sweet girl! thy pledge of love;
Written by James Montgomery, author of The Wanderer in Switzerland, &c.
And Love, without his pinion, smiled on youth.*+
L'Amitié est l'Amour sans ailes' is a French proverb.
No particular hero is here alluded to. The exploits of Bayard, Nemours, Edward the Black Prince, and in more modern times the fame of Marlborough, Frederick the Great, Count Saxe, Charles of Sweden, etc., are familiar to every historical reader; but the exact places of their birth are known to a very small proportion of their admirers,
It claims my warmest, dearest care,
Like relics left of saints above.
Oh! I will wear it next my heart;
"Twill bind my soul in bonds to thee:
From me again 'twill 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 hue,
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.
My passion the matrons of prudence reprove; I have found that a friend may profess, yet deceive.
To me what is wealth ?-it may pass in an hour,
If tyrants prevail, or if Fortune should frown: To me what is title?-the phantom of power; To me what is fashion?-I seek but renown. Deceit is a stranger as yet to my soul;
I still am unpractised to varnish the truth: Then why should I live in a hateful control? Why waste upon folly the days of my youth?
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!
THE DEATH OF CALMAR AND ORLA.* AN IMITATION OF MACPHERSON'S OSSIAN. DEAR are the days of youth! Age dwells on their remembrance through the mist of time. ADDRESSED TO THE REV. J. T. BECHER, ON In the twilight he recalls the sunny hours of HIS ADVISING THE AUTHOR TO MIX MORE morn. 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, [press.
No torrent can quench it, no bounds can re-
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 piuions 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 brave!
[breath;
Their lives did not end when they yielded their
Their glory illumines the gloom of their grave.
Yet why should I mingle in Fashion's full herd?
Why crouch to her leaders, or cringe to her
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 friendship,—to dark-haired Orla, destroyer of sigh of his soul: his thoughts were given to heroes! Equal were their swords in battle; but Calmar. Together they dwelt in the cave of fierce was the pride of Orla :-gentle alone to Oithona.
From Lochlin, Swaran bounded o'er 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.
armies: but the blazing oaks gleam through the Night rose in clouds. Darkness veils the were of blood. They lift the spear in thought, valley. The sons of Lochlin slept : their dreams
Why bend to the proud, or applaud the absurd?
Why search for delight in the friendship of and Fingal flies. Not so the host of Morven.
fools?
I have tasted the sweets and the bitters of love; is
In friendship I early was taught to believe;
taken from Visus and Euryalus, of which episode a trans This story, though considerably varied in the catastrophe,
To watch was the post of Orla. Calmar stood the heroes through the slumbering band. Half by his side. Their spears were in their hands. the journey is past, when Mathon, resting on his Fingal called his chiefs: they stood around. shield, meets the eye of Orla. It rolls in flame, The king was in the midst. Grey were his and glistens through the shade. His spear is locks, but strong was the arm of the king. Age raised on high. Why dost thou bend thy withered not his powers. 'Sons of Morven,' brow, chief of Oithona?' said fair-haired Calmar: said the hero, to-morrow we meet the foe. we are in the midst of foes. Is this a time for But where is Cuthullin, the shield of Erin? delay? It is a time for vengeance,' said Oila He rests in the halls of Tura; he knows not of of the gloomy brow. Mathon of Lochlin sleeps: our coming. Who will speed through Lochlin seest thou his spear? Its point is dim with the to the hero, and call the chief to arms? The gore of my father. The blood of Mathon shall path is by the swords of foes; but many are my reek on mine; but shall I slay him sleeping, heroes. They are thunderbolts of war. Speak, son of Mora? No! he shall feel his wound: ye chiefs! Who will arise?' my fame shall not soar on the blood of slumber. 'Son of Trenmor! mine be the deed,' said Rise, Mathon, rise! The son of Conna calls; dark-haired Orla, and mine alone. What is thy life is his; rise to combat.' Mathon starts death to me? I love the sleep of the mighty, from sleep; but did he rise alone? No: the but little is the danger. The sons of Lochlin gathering chiefs bound on the plain. Fly! dream. I will seek car-borne Cuthullin. If I Calmar, fly!' said dark-haired Orla. 'Mathon fall, raise the song of bards; and lay me by the is mine. I shall die in joy: but Lochlin crowds stream of Lubar.'-'And shalt thou fall alone?' around. Fly through the shade of night.' Orla said fair-haired Calmar. Wilt thou leave thy turns. The helm of Mathon is cleft; his shield friend afar? Chief of Oithona! not feeble is falls from his arm: he shudders in his blood. my arm in fight. Could I see thee die, and not He rolls by the side of the blazing oak. Strulift the spear? No, Orla! ours has been the mon sees him fall: his wrath rises: his weapon chase of the roe-buck, and the feast of shells; glitters on the head of Orla : but a spear pierced ours be the path of danger: ours has been the his eye. His brain gushes through the wound, cave of Oithona; ours be the narrow dwelling and foams on the spear of Calmar. As roll the on the banks of Lubar.' 'Calmar,' said the waves of the ocean on two mighty barks of the chief of Oithona, 'why should thy yellow locks north, so pour the men of Lochlin on the chiefs. be darkened in the dust of Erin? Let me fall As, breaking the surge in foam, proudly steer alone. My father dwells in his hall of air: he the barks of the north, so rise the chiefs of Morwill rejoice in his boy; but the blue-eyed Mora ven on the scattered crests of Lochlin. The din spreads the feast for her son in Morven. She of arms came to the ear of Fingal. He strikes listens to the steps of the hunter on the heath, his shield; his sons throng around; the people and thinks it is the tread of Calmar. Let her pour along the heath. Ryno bounds in joy. not say, Calmar has fallen by the steel of Ossian stalks in his arms. Oscar shakes the Lochlin he died with gloomy Orla, the chief spear. The eagle wing of Fillan floats on the of the dark brow." Why should tears dim the wind. Dreadful is the clang of death! many azure eyes of Mora? Why should her voice are the widows of Lochlin! Morven prevails in curse Orla, the destroyer of Calmar? Live, its strength. 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.'
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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! They quit the circle of the chiefs. Their steps he lives, though low. Rise,' said the king, 'rise, are to the host of Lochlin. The dying blaze of son of Mora: 'tis mine to heal the wounds of oak dim twinkles through the night. The heroes. Calmar may yet bound on the hills of northern star points the path to Tura. Swaran, Morven.' the king, rests on his lonely hill. Here the Never more shall Calmar chase the deer of troops are mixed: they frown in sleep; their Morven with Orla,' said the hero. What were shields beneath their heads. Their swords gleam the chase to me alone? Who shall share the at distance in heaps. The fires are faint; their spoils of battle with Calmar? Orla is at rest! embers fail in smoke. All is hushed; but the Rough was thy soul, Orla! yet soft to me as the gale sighs on the rocks above. Lightly wheel dew of morn. It glared on others in lightning:
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