Hypocrisy, the gift of lengthen'd years, A patron's praise can well reward the lie: Away with themes like this! not mine the task But when that foe, from feeling or from shame, And he who wields must sometimes feel the rod. Here first remember'd be the joyous band, Succeeded him, whom all unite to praise, with him, for years, we search'd the classic page, No more his mention shall my verse degrade,— High through those elms, with hoary branches crown'd, Fair IDA'S bower adorns the landscape round; To her awhile resigns her youthful train," And here we earn'd the conquest dearly bought; Here mingling view the names of sire and son- Dear honest race! though now we meet no more, One last long look on what we were before Our first kind greetings, and our last adieu- Yet why should I alone with such delight Stern Death forbade my orphan youth to share 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, 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 madeAnxious 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 careerForward 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, The world admire thee, and thy friends adore; Now last, but nearest of the social band, See honest, open, generous CLEON stand; With scarce one speck to cloud the pleasing scene, 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, The praise is due, who made that fame my own. 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, 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 Are swept for ever from this busy world; [whirl'a, Revolve the fleeting moments of your youth, While Care has 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; Peruse 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, And Love, without his pinion, smiled on Youth. ANSWER TO A BEAUTIFUL POEM, Some shall exist beyond the grave. The record of his deathless name. 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, The mouldering marble lasts its day, 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 Then do not say the common lot Of all lies deep in Lethe's wave; Some few who ne'er will be forgot TO A LADY 1806. WHO PRESENTED THE AUTHOR WITH THE VEL- THIS Band, which bound thy yellow hair, But mingle in the grave with me. 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, 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, 1832.] For the life of a Fox, of a Chatham the death, I have tasted the sweets and the bitters of love; To me what is wealth?-it may pass in an hour, 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? 1806. REMEMBRANCE, "T IS done!-I saw it in my dreams; Love, Hope, and Joy, alike adieu! on the banks of Lubar." "Calmar," said the chief THE DEATH OF CALMAR AND ORLA. of Oithona, "why should thy yellow locks be dark AN IMITATION OF MACPHERSON'S OSSIAN. 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 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 locks: they streamed like the meteor of the night. No maid was the sigh of his soul: his thoughts were given to friendship,-to darkhaired 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 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 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 thunderbolts 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 Lubar.""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 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 ened 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 her not say, 'Calmar has 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 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 fairhaired 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 Conna 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 |