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With Resignation wage relentless strife,
While Hope retires appall'd, and clings to life!
Yet less the pang, when, through the tedious hour,
Remembrance sheds around her genial power,
Calls back the vanish'd days to rapture given,
When Love was bliss, and Beauty form'd our heaven;
Or, dear to youth, pourtrays each childish scene,
Those fairy bowers, where all in turn have been.
As when, through clouds that pour the summer storm,
The orb of day unveils his distant form,

Gilds with faint beams the crystal dews of rain,
And dimly twinkles o'er the watery plain;
Thus, while the future dark and cheerless gleams,
The Sun of Memory, glowing through my dreams,
Though sunk the radiance of his former blaze,
To scenes far distant points his paler rays,
Still rules my senses with unbounded sway,
The past confounding with the present day.

Oft does my heart indulge the rising thought,
Which still recurs, unlook'd for, and unsought;
My soul to Fancy's fond suggestion yields,
And roams romantic o'er her airy fields;
Scenes of my youth develop'd crowd to view,
To which I long have paid a last adieu !

THE DEATH OF CALMAR AND ORLA,

AN IMITATION OF MACPHERSON'S OSSIAN.*

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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 grey stone marks his

* It may be necessary to observe that the story, though considerably varied in the catastrophe, is taken from Nisus and Euryalus,' of which episode a translation is already given in the present volume.

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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 dark-haired 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.

Erin's sons

From Lochlin, Swaran bounded o'er the blue waves. 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. Grey were his looks, 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 dark-haired 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 carborne 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 roebuck, and the feast of shells; ours be the path of danger. Ours has been the cave of Oithona; ours be the narrow dwelling on the banks of Lubar.' Calmar,' said the Chief of Oithona, why should thy yellow locks be darkened 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

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heath, and thinks it is the tread of Calmar. Let him 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, Catmar! 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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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 ou 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 fair-haired 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 Connal 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 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 of Morven

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