Morven with Orla;" said the hero, 66

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 unmatched 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."*

TO E. N. L. Esq.

Nil ego contulerim jucundo sanus amico.

HOR. E.

DEAR L-, 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,

* 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 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.

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.
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,
Where smiling Youth delights to dwell,
And hearts with early rapture swell;
If frowning Age, with cold controul,
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
Oft has it been my fate to mourn,

soul is still the same,

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 rolled on me,
Can now no more my love recal,
In truth, dear L, 'twas 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.