Obrazy na stronie


Place me along the rocks I love,

How do thy branches moaning to the blast,
Which sound to ocean's wildest roar;

Invite the bosom to recal the past;
I ask but this--again to rove

And seem to whisper, as they gently swell, Through scenes my youth hath known before. « Take, while thou canst, a lingering last farewell !» Few are my years, and yet I feel

When Fate shall chill, at length, this fever'd breast, The world was ne'er design'd for me ;

And calm its cares and passions into rest,
Ah! why do darkening shades conceal

Oft have I thought 't would sooth my dying hour,
The hour when man must cease to be?

If aught may sooth when life resigns her power,
Once I beheld a splendid dream,

To know some humbler grave, some narrow cell,
A visionary scene of bliss ;

Would hide my bosom where it loved to dwell :
Truth! wherefore did thy hated beam

With this food dream methioks 't were sweet to dieAwake me to a world like this?

And here it lingered, here my heart might lie;

lere might I sleep, where all my hopes arose, I loved— but those I loved are gone;

Scene of my youth, and couch of my repose :
Had friends--my early friends are fled ;

For ever stretch'd beneath this mantling shade,
How cheerless feels the heart alone,

Press'd by the turf where once my childhood play'd, When all its former hopes are dead!

'l'rapt by the soil that veils che spot I loved, Though gay companions o'er the bowl

Mix'd with the earth o'er which my footsteps moved, Dispel awhile the sense of ill,

Blest by the tongues that charm'd my youthful ear, Though Pleasure stirs the maddening soul,

Mouro'd by the few my soul acknowledged here,
The beari-the heart is lonely still.

Deplored by those in early days allied,
How dull to hear the voice of those

And unremember'd by the world beside.
Whom Rank or Chance, whom Wealth or Power,
Have made, though neither friends nor foes,

Associates of the festive hour.
Give me again a faithful few,
In years and feelings still the same,

And I will fly the midnight crew,
Where boisterous Joy is but a name.

Dear are the days of youth! Age dwells on their re

membrance through the mist of time. In the twilight And Woman! lovely Woman, thou,

he recals the sunny hours of morn. He lifts his spear My hope, my comforier, my all!

with trembling hand. « Not thus feebly did I raise the How cold must be my bosom now,

steel before my fathers !» Past is the race of heroes ! When e'en thy smiles begin to pall!

but their fame rises on the harp; their souls ride on Without a sigh would I resiga

the wings of the wind! they hear the sound through This busy scene of splendid woe,

the sighs of the storm, and rejoice in their hall of To make that calm contentment inine

clouds! Such is Calmar. The gray stone marks his Which Virtue knows, or seems to know. parrow house. He looks down from eddying tempests, Fain would I fly the haunts of men

he rolls his form in the whirlwind; and hovers on the I seek to shun, not hate mankind;

blast of the mountain. My breast requires the sullen glen,

In Morven dwelt the chief; a beam of war to Fingal. Whose gloom may sưit a darken'd mind. His steps in the field were marked in blood; Lochlin's Oh! that to me the wings were given

sons had fled before his angry spear: but mild was the Which bear the turtle to her nest!

eye of Calmar; soft was the flow of his yellow locksThen would I cleave the vault of Heaven,

they stream'd like the meteor of the night. No maid To flee away and be at rest."

was the sigh of his soul; his thoughts were given to

friendship, to dark-haired Orla, destroyer of heroes! LINES

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.

From Lochlin, Swaran bounded over the blue waves. SEPT. 2, 1807,

Erin's sons fell beneath his might. Fingal roused his Spot of my youth! whose hoary branches sigh, chiefs to combat. Their ships cover the ocean! Their Swept by the breeze that fans thy cloudless sky;

hosts throng on the green hills. They come to the aid Where now alone I muse, who oft have trod,

of Erin. With those I loved, thy soft and verdant sod;

Night rose in clouds. Darkness veils the armies; With those who, scatter'd far, perchance deplore, but the blazing oaks gleam through the valley. The Like me, the happy scenes they knew before: sons of Lochlin slept: their dreams were of blood. They Oh ! as I trace again thy winding hill,

lift the spear in thought, and Fingal flies. Not so the Mine eyes admire, my heart adores thee still,

host of Morven. To watch was the post of Orla. Cal. Thou drooping Elm! beneath whose boughs I lay, mar stood by his side. Their spears were in their hands. And frequent mused the twilight hours away;

Fingal called his chiefs. They stood around. The king Where, as they once were wont, my limbs recline, was in the midst. Gray were his locks, but strong was But ah! without the thoughts which then were mine : the arm of the king. Age wither'd not his powers.

Psalm lv, v. 6.—. And I said, Ob! that I had wings like a dove, It may be necessary 10 observe, that the story, though consithen would i fly away and be at rest. This verso also constitutes derably varied in the catastrophe, is taken from Nisus and Eurya part of the most beautiful anthem in our language.

alus, of which opisodo a translation has been already given.



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Sons of Morven,» said the hero, « 10-morrow we meet Lochlin crowds around; fly through the shade of night.» the foe; but where is Cuthullin, the shield of Erin ? Orla turns; the helm of Mathon is cleft; his shield He rests in the halls of Tura: he knows not of our falls from his arm: he shudders in his blood. He rolls coming. Who will speed through Lochlin to the hero, by the side of the blazing oak. Strumon sees him fall. and call the chief 10 arms ? The path is by the swords His wrath rises; his weapon glitters on the head of of foes, but many are my heroes. They are thunder- Orla; but a spear pierced his eye.

His brain gushes bolts of war. Speak, ye chiefs! who will arise ?» through the wound, and foams on the spear of Calmar.

& Son of Treomor, mine be the deed,» said dark- As roll the waves of ocean on two mighty barks of the baired Orla, « and mine alone. What is death to me? north, so pour the men of Lochlin on the chiefs. As, I love the sleep of the mighty, but little is the danger. breaking the surge in foam, proudly steer the barks of The sons of Lochlin dream, I will seek car-borne the north, so rise the chiefs of Morven on the scattered Catbullin. If I fall, raise the song of bards, and lay crests of Lochlin. The din of arms came to the ear of ne by the stream of Lubar.»—« And shalt thou fall Fingal. He strikes his shield: his sons throng around; alone?» said fair-bair'd Calmar. « Wilt thou leave thy the people pour along the beath. Ryno bounds in joy. friend afar, Chief of Oithona? not feeble is my arm in Ossian stalks in his arms. Oscar shakes the spear. The bgbac. Could I see thee die, and not lift the spear? No, eagle wing of Fillan floats on the wind. Dreadful is Oria! ours has been the chase of the roe-buck, and the the clang of death! many are the widows of Lochlin. feast of shells; ours be the path of danger: ours has Morven prevails in its strength.' been the cave of Oithona; ours be the narrow dwelling Moro glimmers on the hills! no living foe is seen; to the banks of Lubar.»-« Calmar!» said the chief of bui the sleepers are many: grim they lie on Erin. The Cibona, « why should thy yellow locks be darkened breeze of Ocean lifts their locks: yet they do not awake. in the dust of Erin? Let me fall alone. My father The hawks scream above their prey. dsells in his hall of air: he will rejoice in his boy: but Whose yellow locks wave o'er the breast of a chief; the blue-eyed Mora spreads the feast for her son in bright as the gold of the stranger, they mingle with the Norven. She listens to the steps of the hunter on the dark hair of his friend. "T is Calmar-he lies on the beah, and thinks it is the tread of Calmar. Let him bosom of Orla. Theirs is one stream of blood. Fierce pot say, “Calmar is fallen by the steel of Lochlio ; he is the look of the gloomy Orla. He breathes not; but ded with gloomy Orla, the chief of the dark-brow.' his eye is still a flame; it glares in death unclosed. Wby should tears dim the azure eye of Mora? Why His hand is grasped in Calmar's; but Calmar lives; he should her voice curse Orla, the destroyer of Calmar? lives, though low. « Rise,» said the king, « rise, son of Live, Calmar, live to raise my stone of moss; live to Mora, 'l is mine to heal the wounds of heroes. Calmar revenge me in the blood of Lochlio! Join the song of may yet bound on the hills of Morven.» bards above my grave. Sweet will be the song of death « Never more shall Calmar chase the deer of Morven to Orla, from the voice of Calmar. My ghost shall smile with Orla ;» said the hero, << what were the chase to ca the notes of praise.»--« Orla !» said the son of me, alone? Who would share the spoils of battle with Mona, « could I raise the song of death to my friend ? Calmar? Orla is al rest! Rough was thy soul, Orla! Could I give his fame to the winds? No; my heart yet soft to me as the dew of morn. It glared on others would speak in sighs; faint and broken are the sounds in lightning; to me a silver beam of night. Bear my of sorrow. Orla ! our souls shall hear the song together. sword to blue-eyed Mora: let it hang in my empty hall. One cloud shall be ours on high; the bards will mingle It is not pure from blood: but it could not save Orla. the names of Oria and Calmar.»

Lay me with my friend : raise the song when I am They quit the circle of the cliefs. Their steps are dark.» is the host of Lochlio. The dying blaze of oak dim They are laid by the stream of Lubar. Four gray twiakles through the night. The northern star points scones mark the dwelling of Orla and Calmar. the path to Tura. Swaran, the king, rests on his When Swaran was bound, our sails rose on the blue bogely hill. Here the troops are mixed: they frown in waves. The winds gave our barks to Morven. The slerp, their shields beneath their heads. Their swords Bards raised the song. pleam, at distance, in heaps. The fires are faint ; their « What form rises on the roar of clouds? whose dark embers fail in smoke. All is hushed; but the gale ghost gleams on the red streams of tempests ? his voice siębs on the rocks above. Lightly wheel the heroes rolls on the thunder. "T is Orla ; the brown chief of through the slumbering band. Half the journey is Oithona. He was unmatch'd in war. Peace to thy past, when Mathon, resting on his shield, meets the soul, Orla! thy fame will not perish. Nor thine, Caleyle of Orla. Il rolis in flame, and glistens through the mar! lovely wast thou, son of blue-cyed Mora ; but shade: his spear is raised on bigh. Why dost thou not harmless was thy sword. It hangs in thy cave. bend thy brow, Chief of Oithona ?n said fair-haired The ghosts of Lochlio sliriek around its steel. Hear thy Caimar. « We are in the midst of foes. Is this a time praise, Calmar! it dwells on the voice of the mighty. for delay?» — «lt is a time for vengeance,» said Orla Thy name shakes on the echoes of Morven. Then raise of the gloomy brow. Maihon of Lochlin sleeps : seest thy fair locks, son of Mora ; spread them on the arch itou his spear? Its point is dim with the gore of my of the rainbow, and smile through the tears of the facher. The blood of Mathon shall reek on mine ; but storm.» ! shall I slay him sleeping, son of Mora? No! he shall

'I fear Laing's late edition has completely orerthrown every hope feel his wound; my fame shall not soar on the blood that Macpherson's Ossian might prove the Translation of a series of of slumber. Rise, Mathon! rise! the son of Connal calls; Poems, complete in tbemselves; but, wbile the imposture is discothy life is bis : rise to combat.» Mathon starts from vered, the merit of the work remains undisputed, though pot withsleep, but did he rise alone? No: the gathering chiefs out faults, particularly, in some parts, turgid and bombastic diction. bound on the plain.

The present humble imitation will be pardoned by the admirers of « Fly, Calmar, fly'» said dark- the original, as an attempt, however inferior, which evinces an asbaired Orla: « Mathon is mine; I shall die in joy; but tachment to their favourite author.

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Hours of Idleness; a Series of Poems, original and With this view, we must beg leave seriously to assure

translated. By George Gordon, Lord Byron, a Minor. him, that the mere rhyming of the final syllable, even 8vo. pp. 200.—Newark, 1807.

when accompanied by the presence of a certain number

of feel; nay, although (which does not always happen) The poesy of this young Lord belongs to the class those feet should scan regularly, and have been all which neither gods nor men are said to permit. Indeed, counted accurately upon the fingers,- it is not the we do not recollect to have seen a quantity of verse whole art of poetry. We would entreat him to believe, with so few deviations in either direction from that that a certain portion of liveliness, somewhat of fancy, exact standard. His effusions are spread over a dead is necessary to constitute a poem, and that a poem in flat, and can no more get above or below the level, than the present day, to be read, must contain at least one if they were so much stagnant water. As an extenuation thought, either in a little degree different from the of this offence, the poble author is peculiarly forward ideas of former writers, or differently expressed. We in pleading minority. We have it in the title-page, put it to his candour, whether there is any thing so deand on the very back of the volume; it follows bis serving the name of poetry in verses like the following, name like a favourite part of his style. Much stress is written in 1806; and whether, if a youth of eighteen laid upon it in the preface, and the poems are connected could say any thing so uninteresting to his ancestors, a with this general statement of his case, by particular youth of nineteen should publish it: dates, substantiating the age at which each was written.

• Shades of heroes, farewell! your descendant, departing Now, the law upon the point of minority we hold to be

From the seat of his ancestors, bids you adieu ! perfectly clear. It is a plea available only to the de

Abroad or at home, your remembrance imparting fendant; no plaintiff can offer it as a supplementary New courage, he'll think upon glory and you. ground of action. Thus, if any suit could be brought

• Though a tear dim his «ye at this sad separation, against Lord Byron, for the purpose of compelling liim 'T is nature, not fear, that excites his regret: to put into court a certain quantity of poetry, and if

Far distant be coes, with the same emulation;

The fame of his fathers be ne'er can forget. judgment were given against him, it is highly probable that an exception would be taken were he to deliver • Tbat fame, and that memory, still will be cherish,

He vows that be ne'er will disgrace your renown; for poetry the contents of this volume. To this he

Like you will he live, or like you will be purish; might plead minority ; but, as he now makes voluntary

When decay'd, may be mingle his dust with your own.. tender of the article, he hath no right to sue, on that ground, for the price in good current praise, should

Now we positively do assert, that there is nothing the goods be unmarketable. This is our view of the better than these stanzas in the whole compass of the law on the point, and, we dare to say, so will it be ruled. noble minor's volume. Perhaps, however, in reality, all that he tells us about

Lord Byron should also have a care of attempting his youth is rather with a view to increase our wonder, what the greatest poets have done before him, for than to soften oar censures. He possibly means to say: comparisons (as be must have had occasion to see at « See how a minor can write! This poem was actually his writing-master's) are odious.—Gray's Ode on Eton composed by a young man of eighteen, and this by one

College should really have kept out the ten hobbling of only sixteen! »–But, alas! we all remember the poetry stanzas « On a distant view of the village and school of of Cowley at len, and Pope at twelve; and so far from

Harrow.» hearing, with any degree of surprise, that very poor verses were written by a youth from his leaving school • Where fancy yet joys to retrace the resemblance to bis leaving college, inclusive, we really believe this

Of comrades, in friendship and mischief allied ;

How welcome to me your ue'er-fading remembrance, to be the most common of all occurrences; that it

Which rests in the bosom, though bope is denied. happens in the life of nine men in ten who are educaled in England; and that the tenth man writes better

In like manner, the exquisite lines of Mr Rogers « On verse than Lord Byron.

a Tear,» might have warned the noble author off those Ilis other plea of privilege our author rather brings premises, and spared us a whole dozen such stanzas as forward in order to waive it. He certainly, however, the following: does allude frequently to bis family and ancestorssometimes in poetry, sometimes in noles; and while

. Mild Charity's glow,

To us mortals below, giving up his claim on the score of rank, he takes care

Shows the soul from barbarity clear; to remember us of Dr Johnson's saying, that when a

Compassion will melt, nobleman appears as an author, his merit should be

Where ibis virtue is felt, handsomely acknowledged. In truth, it is this consi- And its dow is diffusod in a Tear. deration only, that induces us to give Lord Byron's

* The man doom'd to sail, poems a place in our review, beside our desire to coun

With the blast of the gale, sel him, that he do forthwith abandon poetry, and turn

Through billows Atlantic to steer,

As he bends o'er the wave, his talents, which are considerable, and his opportuni

Which may soon be his grave. ties, wbich are great, to better account.

The green sparkles bright with a Tear.

And so of instances in which former poets had failed. last and youngest of a noble line.» There is a good Thus, we do not think Lord Byron was inade for trans- deal also about his maternal ancestors, in a poem on Latiog, during his non-age, Adrian's Address to his Soul, Lachin y Gair, a mountain where he spent part of his when Pope succeeded so iodifferently in the attempl. youth, and might have learnt that pibroch is not a If our readers, however, are of another opinion, they bagpipe, any more than duct means a fiddle. may look at it.

As the author has dedicated so large a part of his vo

lume to immortalize his employments at school and « Ah! gentle, fleeting, waveringisprite,

college, we cannot possibly dismiss it without presentFriend and associate of this clay!

ing the reader with a specimen of these ingenious effuTo what unknown region horne, Wilt thou now wing thy distant flight?

sions. In an ode with a Greek motto, called Granta, No more with wonted humour gay,

we have the following magnificent stanzas : Bat pallid, cheerless, and forlorn.,

* Tbere, in apartments small and damp. However, be this as it may, we fear his translations

The candidate for college prizes and imitations are great favourites with Lord Byron.

Sits poring by the midnight lampi

Goes late to bed, yet early rises. We have them of all kinds, from Anacreon to Ossian; and, viewiog them as school exercises, they may pass.

• Who reads false quantities in Sele.

Or puzzlex o'er the deep triangle, Only, why print them after they have had their day

Deprived of many a wholesome meal, and served their turn? And why call the thing in p:79,'

In barbarous Latin doom'd to wrangle: a translation, where two words (JEW)yelv) of the

Renouncing every pleasing page, original are expanded into four lives, and the other

From authors of historic use, triog in p. 81,2 where PETOVUXTIALS TOO' paes, is ren- Preferring to the lotter'd sage dered by means of six hobbling verses? As to his Os

The square of the hypoubenuse. sianie poesy, we are not very good judges, being, in • Still harmless are these occupations, truth, so moderately skilled in that species of compo

That burt pone but the hapless student,

Compared with other recreations, sition, that we should, in all probability, be criticising

Which bring together the imprudent.. some bit of the genuine Macpherson itself, were we to express our opinion of Lord Byron's rhapsodies. If, We are sorry to hear so bad an account of the colthen, the following beginning of a «Song of Bards » is Jege psalmody as is contained in the following Attic by his Lordship, we venture to object to it, as far as we

stanzas : | can comprehend it. « What form rises on the roar of

• Our choir would scarcely be excused douds, whose dark ghost gleams on the red stream of

Even as a band of raw beginners; tempests? His voice rolls on the thunder; 't is Orla, the All mercy now must be refused brown chief of Oithona. He was,» etc. After detaining

To such a set of croaking sinners. this a brown chief » some time, the bards conclude by - If David, when his toils were ended, giving him their advice to « raise his fair locks; » then

Tad heard tbese blockbeads sing before him,

To us his psalms bad ne'er descended : to spread them on the arch of the rainbow; » and « to

In furious mood be would have tore 'em! sunile through the tears of the storm.» Of this kind of thing there are no less than nine pages; and we can so But whatever judgment may be passed on the poems far venture an opinion in their favour, that they look of this noble minor, it seems we must take them as we very like Macpherson; and we are positive they are find them, and be content; for they are the last we pretty nearly as stupid and tiresome.

shall ever have from him. He is, at best, he says, but It is a sort of privilege of poets to be egotists; but an intruder into the groves of Parnassus; he never lived they should « use it as not abusing it; » and particu- in a garret, like thorough-bred poets; and « though he larly one who piques himself (though indeed at the once roved a careless mountaineer in the Highlands of ripe age of nineteen) of being «an infant bard, » Scotland,» he has not of late enjoyed this advantage. (* The artless Helicon I boast is youth ;») — should either Moreover, hie expects no profit from his publication; Dot know, or should seem not to know, so much about and, whether it succeeds or not, « it is highly improbahis own ancestry. Besides a poem above cited, on the ble, from his situation and pursuits hereafter, » that he family seat of the Byrons, we have another of eleven should again condescend to become an author. Therepages, on the self-same subject, introduced with an fore, let us take what we get, and be thankful. What apology, «he certainly had no intention of inserting right have we poor devils to be nice? We are well off ila bat really « the particular request of some friends,» to have got so much from a man of this Lord's station, etc., etc. It concludes with five stanzas on himself, «the who does not live in a garret, but « has the sway » of

Newstead Abbey. Again, we say, let us be thankful;

and, with honest Sancho, bid God bless the giver, nor ! See page 10 · Papril.

look the gift horse in the mouth.

English Bards and Scotch Reviewers;


I had rather be a kitten, and cry mew!
Tban one of these same metre ballad-mongers.


Such shameless Bards we have; and yet, 't is true,
There are as mad, abandoned Critics too.


out arms.




than the author, that some known and able writer had undertaken their exposure; but Mr GIFFORD has de

voted bimself to Massinger, and, in the absence of the All my friends, learned and unlearned, have urged me regular physician, a country practitioner may, in cases not to publish this Satire with my name. If I were to

of absolute necessity, be allowed to prescribe his nosbe « turned from the career of my humour by quibbles trum, to prevent the extension of so deplorable an quick, and paper bullets of the brain » I should have epidemic, provided there be no quackery in his treatcomplied with their counsel. But I am not to be ter- ment of the malady. A caustic is here offered, as it is rified by abuse, or bullied by reviewers, with or with

to be feared nothing short of actual cautery can recoI can safely say that I have attacked none

ver the numerous patients afflicted with the present personally who did not commence on the offensive. prevalent and distressing rabies for rliyining.- As to An author's works are public property: he who pur- the Edinburgh Reviewers, it would indeed require a chases may judye, and publish leis opinion if he pleases; Hercules to crush the Hydra; but if the author succeeds and the authors I have endeavoured to commemorate

in merely « bruising one of the heads of the serpent, may do by me as I bave done by them : I dare say they though his own hand should suffer in the encounter, will succeed better in condemuing my scribblings than he will be amply satisfied. in mending their own. But my object is not to prove that I can write well, but, if possible, to make others write belter.

ENGLISH BARDS, As the Poem has met with far more success than I expected, I have endeavoured in this edition to make some additions and alterations, to render it more worthy of public perusal. in the first edition of this Satire, published anony- His creaking couplets in a tavern ball,

Still must I hear?—shall hoarse FitZGERALD' bawl mously, fourteen lines on the subject of Bowles's Pope And I not sing, lest, haply, Scotch Reviews were written and inserted at the request of an inje- Should dub me scribbler, and denounce my Muse? vious friend of mine, wlio has now in the press a volume of poetry. In the present edition they are erased, Prepare for rlıyme,I'll publish, right or wrong:

Fools are my theme, let Satire be my song. and some of my own substituted in their stead; my only reason for ibis being that which I concrive would

Oh! Nature's noblest gift-my gray goose-quill! operate with any other person in the same manner-a Slave of my thoughts, obedient io my will, determination not to publish with my name any pro-Torn from thy parent bird to form a pen, duction which was not entirely and exclusively my own that mighty instrument of litt'e men! composition.

The pen! foredoom'd to aid the mental throes With regard to the real talents of many of the poet- of braios that labour, big with verse or prose, ical persons whose performances are mentioned or Though nymphs forsake, and critics may deride, alluded to in the following pages, it is presumed by the The lover's solace, and the author's pride : author that there can be little difference of opinion in what wils, what poets dost thou daily raise! the public at large; tbough, like other sectaries, each How frequent is thy use, low small thy praise ! has his separate tabernacle of proselyecs, by whom lois Condemn'd at lengılı to be forgotteo quite, abilities are overrated, his faults overlooked, and lois With all obe pages which i was thine to write. metrical canons received without scruple and without But thou, at least, mine own especial pen! consideration. But the unquestionable possession of Once laid aside, but now assumed again, considerable genius by several of the writers here cen

• IMITATION. sured, renders their mental prostitution more to be

• Semper ego auditor tantum ? nunquamne reponam, regretted. Imbecility may be pilied, or, at worst,

Vexatas toties rauci Tbeseide Codrils-Juvenal, Sal, I. laughed at aud forgotten; perverted powers demand

Mr FITZGERALD, facetiously termed by Coutur iho. Small-Beer the most decided reprehension. No one can wish more

Poet," inflicts his annual tribute of verse on the « Literary Fund;

not content with writing, be spouts in person, after the company This Preface was written for the second edition of this poem, have imbiled a reasonatle quantity of bad port, to euable them to and printed with it.

sustain the operation.

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