'Tis long since the muse to my aid has descended,
Or smiling and pleased, her poor votary befriended;
Now tired of entreaties, I'll court her no more,
But alone and unaided her realms I'll explore;
So, dear cousin Maggy, condemn not my muse,
If my verse all its rhyme and its harmony lose,
For, vex'd with refusals so frequent and long,
Without her I've dared to engage in a song;
And shielded and guided by Clio no more,
To meet thy Pegasus I tremblingly soar.
While confined by the shackles of sickness and pain,
For many a day on my couch I had lain,
And in seeking for rest, to my weak frame denied,
Was tossing fatigued on each sore, aching side,
There came down a tall spirit of light (as it were,)
From the realms of the sky and the regions of air;
He dispell'd from my bosom its gloom and its dread,
And kindled the torchlight of hope in their stead.
Ah! then, my dear friend, so great was his power,
He could lighten my pain, and soothe solitude's hour;
Ah why then, my cousin, thus brand him with shame
Ah why then describe him as "sightless and lame?"
All noble and lovely he seem'd to mine eye,
And when ceasing to view him I ceased with a sigh!
His wings were expanded, his eyebeam was fire!
And that heart had been old he could fail to inspire.
But alas! I should fail, did I strive to portray
But one half of the graces which round him did play,
And held captive my soul with their wildering sway;
So no more I'll contemplate his charms or thine own,
But try to inform you how we're getting on.
Dear mother still sits on her old rocking-chair,
Either thinking, or smiling, or silent with care;
Then plying her needle with industry still,
Or scribbling and wearing some tarnish'd goosequill.
Dear Matty is thinking of railroads again,
And longs to get hold of the rod and the chain.
He talks of embankments, canals, and high-bridges,
Of steam-cars and tunnels, of swamps and of ditches.
While dear little Kent, with his well-finger'd book,
Sits gazing around him with complacent look;
But alas! my dear coz, the poor fellow has lost
The frequent amusement he valued the most;
For know, in the midst of our sickness and cares,
The glass in our parlour was carried up stairs,
(Other furniture changed-here was station'd a bed,)
So a mirror much smaller was placed in its stead,
And my hapless young brother is able no more
To admire his own beauty and grace as before;
He looks at the tempter all rueful and sad,
And in vain the attempt to attain it is made,
And with long, disappointed, and sorrowful mien,
He retires from the spot to conceal his chagrin.
Oh! join, my dear cousin, with me, and bewail
That his sources of pleasure thus early should fail.
Old Leo, tired out with his frolic and play,
Lies quietly sleeping the rest of the day;
While pussy is purring contentedly near,
Devoid of all care and unconscious of fear.
But enough of this nonsense! I fain would request
That my cousin again may be honour'd and blest
By receiving thy musical Nag as a guest :
His arrival I'll welcome with heartfelt delight,
And gaze on his beauties from morning till night.
Dear uncle and cousins I ne'er can forget,
With sweet little Georgie, his Aunty, and Kate,
Give our love to them all, and yourself must receive
My warm and my lasting affection. Believe,
I shall ever remain as I now am to thee,
Your dear little cousin, and
Though nought but life's sunshine has spread o'er my path,
Though no real distress has e'er clouded my brow:
Though the storms of affliction around me have past,
And shed o'er me nought save the rainbow's bright glow ;
Though nursed from the cradle with tenderest care,
Though shelter'd from all that might grieve or distress; Though life's pathway has blush'd with the fairest of flowers, And my heavenly Father has ceased not to bless ;
Though the chillness of want and the darkness of woe
From my joyous young spirit have rapidly fled:
Though the presence of all whom I cherish and love
Has not fail'd its sweet influence around me to shed;
Still, still there are moments of darkness and grief,
Which steal o'er my soul like the spirit of woe;
I know not their coming, I feel not their cause,
But o'er my rapt spirit they silently flow.
I feel for a while as some terrible blow
Had deprived me of comfort, of friends, and of home;
Then depart they as silent, and leave my freed soul
Again in the bright path of pleasure to roam.
Like clouds in the sky of enjoyment they pass,
And shed o'er my heart a sensation of sadness;
Like clouds do they glide o'er the surface of light,
And leave me again to the spirit of gladness.
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, Rut 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 check 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,
And wrap his cold tomb in thy silvery shroud.
TO THE MUSE, AFTER MY BROTHER'S DEATH.
АH, 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.
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