proudly steer the barks of the north, so rise the chiefs of Morven on the scattered crests of Lochlin. The din of arms came to the ear of Fingal. He strikes his shield; his sons people pour along the heath. Ossian stalks in his arms.

throng around; the Ryno bounds in joy. Oscar shakes the spear.

The eagle wing of Fillan floats on the wind. Dreadful is the clang of death! many are the widows of Lochlin! Morven prevails in its strength.

Morn glimmers on the hills: no living foe is seen; but the sleepers are many; grim they lie on Erin. The breeze of ocean lifts their locks; yet they do not awake. The hawks scream above their prey.

Whose yellow locks wave o'er the breast of a chief? Bright as the gold of the stranger, they mingle with the dark hair of his friend. 'Tis Calmar: he lies on the bosom of Orla. Theirs is one stream of blood. Fierce is the look of the gloomy Orla. He breathes not; but his eye is still a flame. It glares in death unclosed. His hand is grasped in Calmar's; but Calmar lives! he lives, though low. "Rise," said the king, "rise, son of Mora: 'tis mine to heal the wounds of heroes. Calmar may yet bound on the hills of Morven."

"Never more shall Calmar chase the deer of Morven with Orla," said the hero. "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. thy fame will not perish.

It

Peace to thy soul, Orla! Nor thine, Calmar! Lovely wast thou, son of blueeyed Mora; but not harmless was thy sword. It hangs in thy cave. The ghosts of Lochlin shriek around its steel. Hear thy praise, Calmar! dwells on the voice of the mighty. Thy name shakes on the echoes of Morven. Then raise thy air locks, son of Mora. Spread them on the arch of the rainbow; and smile through the tears of the storm." (1)

(1) I fear Laing's late edition has completely overthrown every hope that Macpherson's Ossian might prove the translation of a series of poems com. plete 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.

L'AMITIÉ EST L'AMOUR SANS AILES. (1)

[WRITTEN DECEMBER, 1806.]

WHY should my anxious breast repine,

Because my youth is fled?

Days of delight may still be mine;
Affection is not dead.

In tracing back the years of youth,
One firm record, one lasting truth
Celestial consolation brings;
Bear it, ye breezes, to the seat,
Where first my heart responsive beat,

66

Friendship is Love without his wings!"

Through few, but deeply chequer'd years,
What moments have been mine!
Now half obscured by clouds of tears,
Now bright in rays divine;
Howe'er my future doom be cast,
My soul, enraptured with the past,
To one idea fondly clings;

Friendship that thought is all thine own,
Worth worlds of bliss, that thought alone

66

Friendship is Love without his wings!'

Where yonder yew-trees lightly wave

Their branches on the gale,
Unheeded heaves a simple grave,

Which tells the common tale;

(1) See ante, p. 149. note. We insert this poem here on account of the date of its composition. It was not, however, included in the publication of 1807.-E.

Round this unconscious schoolboys stray, Till the dull knell of childish play

From yonder studious mansion rings; But here whene'er my footsteps move, My silent tears too plainly prove

"Friendship is Love without his wings!"

Oh Love! before thy glowing shrine
My early vows were paid;

My hopes, my dreams, my heart was thine,
But these are now decay'd;

For thine are pinions like the wind,
No trace of thee remains behind,
Except, alas! thy jealous stings.
Away, away! delusive power,
Thou shalt not haunt my coming hour;
Unless, indeed, without thy wings.

Seat of my youth! (1) thy distant, spire
Recalls each scene of joy;

My bosom glows with former fire,

In mind again a boy.

Thy grove of elms, thy verdant hill,

Thy every path delights me still,

Each flower a double fragrance flings;
Again, as once, in converse gay,
Each dear associate seems to say

"Friendship is Love without his wings!"

My Lycus (2) wherefore dost thou weep? Thy falling tears restrain;

(1) Harrow.

(2) The Earl of Clare.

E.

Affection for a time may sleep,
But, oh, 'twill wake again. (1)

Think, think, my friend, when next we meet,
Our long-wish'd interview, how sweet!
From this my hope of rapture springs;
While youthful hearts thus fondly swell,
Absence, my friend, can only tell,
"Friendship is Love without his wings!"

In one, and one alone deceived,
Did I my error mourn?
No-from oppressive bonds relieved,
I left the wretch to scorn.

I turn'd to those my childhood knew,
With feelings warm, with bosoms true,
Twined with my heart's according strings;
And till those vital chords shall break,
For none but these my breast shall wake
Friendship, the power deprived of wings!

Ye few!
my soul, my life is
My memory and my hope;

yours,

Your worth a lasting love ensures,

Unfetter'd in its scope;

From smooth deceit and terror sprung,
With aspect fair and honey'd tongue,

·

(1) The young poet had recently received from Lord Clare, an epistle containing this passage:-" I think by your last letter that you are very much piqued with most of your friends; and, if I am not much mistaken, a little so with me. In one part you say, there is little or no doubt a few years, or months, will render us as politely indifferent to each other, as if we had never passed a portion of our time together:' indeed, Byron, you wrong me; and I have no doubt — at least I hope you wrong yourself." -E.