VERSES WRITTEN WHEN THIRTEEN YEARS OF AGE.

VERSIFICATION FROM OSSIAN.

WHERE the stream in its wildness was rushing below,
And the oak in its greatness was bending above,
Fell Cathba the brave by the hand of his foe,
By the hand of Duchomar, his rival in love.

Duchomar repair'd to the cave of the wild,
Where dwelt in her beauty the star of his breast,
Where she wander'd alone, nature's sensitive child,
Knowing little of life but its love and its rest.

"Oh, beautiful daughter of Cormac the proud!

Oh Morna, thou fairest that earth can bestow!
Why dwellest thou here, 'neath the dark, angry cloud?
Why dwellest thou here where the wild waters flow?

"The old oak is murmuring aloud in the blast,

Which ruffles the breast of the far distant sea, The storm o'er the heavens his thick veil hath cast, And the sky in its sternness is frowning on thee!

"But thou art like snow on the black, wither'd heath,
Thy ringlets are soft as the mist of the night,
When it winds round the broad hill its delicate wreath,
By the sun at its parting made gorgeously bright."

"Whence comest thou, man of the fierce-rolling eye?"
Said the beautiful maid of the dark flowing hair;
"Oh proud is thy bearing, and haughty, and high,

And thy brow, there is darkness and gloominess there.

"Perchance thou hast heard from our foeman of blood;
Doth Swaran appear on the broad-heaving sea,
Doth he pour on our coast like the deep raging flood?
What tidings from Lochlin, Duchomar, for me?"

"No tidings from Lochlin, oh Morna, I bring,

I come from the chase of the fleet-footed deer; My arrows have sped like the eagle's swift wing,

And the scatheless have fled from my presence for fear.

"Three deer at my feet in the death-pang have laid,—
Fair daughter of Cormac, one perish'd for thee;
As my soul do I love thee, oh white-handed maid!
And queen of my heart ever more shalt thou be!"

"Duchomar!" the maiden with firmness replied,
"No portion of love do I cherish for thee;
For thy bosom is dark with its passions and pride,
And fickle thy heart as the wide-rolling sea.

"But Cathba! thou only shall Morna adore,
Thine image alone this fond bosom shall fill;
Oh bright are thy locks as the sunbeams of day,
When the mists of the valley are climbing the hill.

"Hast thou seen him, Duchomar, young Cathba the brave? Hast thou seen the fair chief on his pathway of light? The daughter of Cormac the mighty is here

To welcome her love when he comes from the fight."

"Then long shalt thou tarry, oh Morna!" he cried,
And fiercely and sullenly gazed on the maid,
"Then long shalt thou tarry, oh Morna! for here
Is the blood of thy chief on Duchomar's dark blade.

"Cold, cold is thy hero, and slain by my hand, His tomb will I rear upon Cromla's dark hills; Oh turn on Duchomar thy soft-beaming eye,

For his arm is like lightning, which withers and kills.”

"Has he fallen in death, the brave offspring of Torman?" The maiden exclaim'd in the accents of woe,

"The first in the chase, and the foremost in battle,— Oh sad is my bosom, and dark was the blow!

"And dark is Duchomar, and deadly his vengeance,

He hath blasted each hope which was bright in the bud; Fell foe unto Morna, oh lend me thy weapon,

For Cathba I loved, and I still love his blood."

He yielded the sword to her mourning and sighs,
She plunged the red blade in his fast-heaving side;
And he lay by the stream, as the blasted oak lies,
Till raising his hand he indignantly cried,
"Daughter of blue-shielded Cormac! thy blow
Hath cut off my youth from the fame I love best;
My glory hath fled like a pale wreath of snow,
And Morna! thy weapon is cold in my breast.

"Oh give me to Moina, the maiden of beauty,

Her dreams in the darkness are fraught with my name, My tomb she will raise in the caves on the mountain, That hunters may welcome the mark of my fame.

"She will hang o'er my grave like the mists of the morning, And dwell on my memory with fondness and pride,

But my bosom is cold, and the lifeblood is ebbing,
Oh Morna, draw forth the cold blade from my side."

Slowly and sadly she came at his bidding,

And drew forth the sword from his fast-bleeding breast, But he plunged the red steel in her own lovely bosom, And laid her fair form on the damp earth to rest.

Her tresses dishevell'd around her were flowing,

The blood gurgling fast from the wide-gaping wound, And the eye that was bright, and the cheek that was glowing, In dimness and pallor and silence were bound.

Oh Morna! be thou as the moon, when its light
Shines forth from her throne on the light fleecy cloud,

To watch o'er the grave of thy lover at night,

1835.

And wrap his cold tomb in thy silvery shroud.

TO THE MUSE, AFTER MY BROTHER'S DEATH.

Ан, where art thou wandering, sweet spirit of song,
Who once bore my rapt fancy on bright wings slong?
That soaring from earth, with its cares and its pains,
It might bathe in the light of thy seraph-like strains?

Ah, whither art fled in thy beauty and gladness?
Why leave me in silence thy loss to bewail?

Dost thou shrink from the heart that is tinctured with sadness,
The eye that is dimm'd, or the cheek that is pale?

Since last waved around me thy pinions of light,
The chillness of sorrow hath breathed o'er my home,
For one joyful young spirit hath taken its flight,
One icy-cold form has been borne to the tomb,

Like a flow'ret of summer, he wither'd and died
In the springtime of beauty, of youth, and of pride;
In the freshness of hope he was borne to his tomb,
And the home of his kindred is shadow'd with gloom.

Then return to my bosom, thou wakener of joy,

Oh touch with thy fingers my drooping young lyre!
Awake it to pleasures time ne'er can destroy,
And its chords with a heavenly calmness inspire.

1836.

LINES,

ON HEARING SOME PASSAGES READ FROM MRS. HEMANS'S

1836.

Priestess of song! could we but feel
The value of thine own,

How many a soul would bow before
Thy spirit's lofty throne.

How many now elated

With the muse's faintest smile,
Would turn them to thy radiant shrine,
And worship there awhile.

With softest touch thy magic hand

Awaked the sleeping lyre,

To all a woman's tenderness,
And all a poet's fire.

And proudly soar'd thy lofty mind
Each earthly thought above,

And vainly sought thy woman's heart
For something more to love.
[Unfinished.]

Oh fan to life the kindling spark,

Till brightly burns its radiant flame, For thou art fortune's favour'd child,

And I would plead in mercy's name.

Scan the dark page of life, and say
If there thy searching eye can find
A woe more keen, a fate more sad,
Than that which marks the helpless blind.

Launch'd forth on life's uncertain path,
Its best and brightest gift denied,
No power to pluck its fragrant flowers,
Or turn its poisonous thorns aside;

No ray to pierce the gloom within,
And chase the darkness with its light;
No radiant morning dawn to win
His spirit from the shades of night.

Nature, whose smile, so pure and fair,
Casts a bright glow o'er life's dark stream,
Nature, sweet soother of our care,

Has not a single smile for him.

When pale disease, with blighting hand,
Crushes each budding hope awhile,
Our eyes can rest in sweet delight
On love's fond gaze, or friendship's smile.

Not so with him-his soul, chain'd down
By doubt, and loneliness, and care,
Feels but misfortune's chilling frown,
And broods in darkness and despair.

Favour'd by heaven! oh haste thee on,-
Thy blest Redeemer points the way,-
Haste o'er the spirit's gloom to pour
The light of intellectual day.

Thou canst not raise their drooping lids,
And wake them to the noonday sun;
Thou canst not ope what God hath closed,
Or cancel aught His hands have done.

But oh! there is a world within,

More bright, more beautiful than ours; A world which, nursed by culturing hands, Will blush with fairest, sweetest flowers.

And thou canst make that desert mind
Bloom sweetly as the blushing rose;