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To thee alone, unrivall'd, would belong
The feeble efforts of my lengthen'd song. 1
Well canst thou boast, to lead in senates fit,
A Spartan firmness with Athenian wit:
Though yet in embryo these perfections shine,
Lycus! thy father's fame will soon be thine.
Where learning nurtures the superior mind,
What may we hope from genius thus refined!
When time at length matures thy growing years,
How wilt thou tower above thy fellow peers!
Prudence and sense, a spirit bold and free,
With honour's soul, united beam in thee.

Shall fair EURYALUS pass by unsung? From ancient lineage, not unworthy sprung: What though one sad dissension bade us part, That name is yet embalm'd within my heart ; Yet at the mention does that heart rebound, And palpitate, responsive to the sound. Envy dissolved our ties, and not our will: We once were friends, I'll think we are so still. 3 A form unmatch'd in nature's partial mould, A heart untainted, we in thee behold: Yet not the senate's thunder thou shalt wield, Nor seek for glory in the tented field; To minds of ruder texture these be givenThy soul shall nearer soar its native heaven. Haply, in polish'd courts might be thy seat, But that thy tongue could never forge deceit : The courtier's supple bow and sneering smile, The flow of compliment, the slippery wile, Would make that breast with indignation burn, And all the glittering snares to tempt thee spurn. Domestic happiness will stamp thy fate; Sacred to love, unclouded e'er by hate;

ever arose between us. It was of short duration, and I retain this note solely for the purpose of submitting it to his perusal, that we may smile over the recollection of the insignificance of our first and last quarrel."]

[In the private volume, the following lines conclude this character:

"For ever to possess a friend in thee,

Was bliss unhoped, though not unsought by me. Thy softer soul was form'd for love alone, To ruder passions and to hate unknown; Thy mind, in union with thy beauteous form, Was gentle, but unfit to stem the storm. That face, an index of celestial worth, Proclaim'd a heart abstracted from the earth. Oft, when depress'd with sad foreboding gloom, I sat reclined upon our favourite tomb, I've seen those sympathetic eyes o'erflow With kind compassion for thy comrade's woe: Or when less mournful subjects form'd our themes, We tried a thousand fond romantic schemes, Oft hast thou sworn, in friendship's soothing tone, Whatever wish was mine must be thine own."] [George-John, fifth Earl Delawarr, born Oct. 26. 1791; succeeded his father, John-Richard, July 28. 1795. This ancient family have been barons by the male line from 1342; their ancestor, Sir Thomas West, having been summoned to parliament as Lord West, the 16th Edw. II. We find the following notices in some hitherto unpublished letters of Lord Byron: Harrow, Oct. 25. 1804.-I am happy enough and comfortable here. My friends are not numerous, but select. Among the principal I rank Lord Delawarr, who is very amiable, and my particular friend." "Nov. 2. 1804.Lord Delawarr is considerably younger than me, but the most good-tempered, amiable, clever fellow in the universe. To all which he adds the quality (a good one in the eyes of women) of being remarkably handsome. Delawarr and myself are, in a manner, connected; for one of my forefathers, in Charles the First's time, married into their family."]

[It is impossible to peruse the following extract of a letter addressed to Lord Clare, in February, 1807, without acknowledging the noble candour and conscientiousness of the writer.

You will be astonished to hear I have lately written to Delawarr, for the purpose of explaining (as far as possible,

The world admire thee, and thy friends adore ; — Ambition's slave alone would toil for more.

Now last, but nearest, of the social band, See honest, open, generous CLEON4 stand; With scarce one speck to cloud the pleasing scene, No vice degrades that purest soul serene. On the same day our studious race begun, On the same day our studious race was run; Thus side by side we pass'd our first career, Thus side by side we strove for many a year; At last concluded our scholastic life, We neither conquer'd in the classic strife: As speakers each supports an equal name, And crowds allow to both a partial fame : To soothe a youthful rival's early pride, Though Cleon's candour would the palm divide, Yet candour's self compels me now to own, Justice awards it to my friend alone.

Oh friends regretted, scenes for ever dear, Remembrance hails you with her warmest tear! Drooping, she bends o'er pensive Fancy's urn, To trace the hours which never can return; Yet with the retrospection loves to dwell, 6 And soothe the sorrows of her last farewell! Yet greets the triumph of my boyish mind, As infant laurels round my head were twined, When PROBUS' praise repaid my lyric song,7 Or placed me higher in the studious throng; Or when my first harangue received applause, 8 His sage instruction the primeval cause, What gratitude to him my soul possest, While hope of dawning honours fill'd my breast! For all my humble fame, to him alone

The praise is due, who made that fame my own. 9

without involving some old friends of mine in the business,) the cause of my behaviour to him during my last residence at Harrow, which you will recollect was rather en cavalier. Since that period I have discovered he was treated with injustice, both by those who misrepresented his conduct, and by me in consequence of their suggestions. I have, therefore, made all the reparation in my power, by apologising for my mistake, though with very faint hopes of success. ever, I have eased my own conscience by the atonement, which is humiliating enough to one of my disposition; yet I could not have slept satisfied with the reflection of having, even unintentionally, injured any individual. I have done all that could be done to repair the injury."]


4 [Edward Noel Long, Esq.-to whom a subsequent poem is addressed. See p. 414.]

This alludes to the public speeches delivered at the school where the author was educated.

6 [Thus in the private volume

"Yet in the retrospection finds relief,
And revels in the luxury of grief."]

7 ["I remember that my first declamation astonished Dr. Drury into some unwonted (for he was economical of such) and sudden compliments, before the declaimers at our first rehearsal."- Byron Diary.]

["I certainly was much pleased with Lord Byron's attitude, gesture, and delivery, as well as with his composition. All who spoke on that day adhered, as usual, to the letter of their composition, as in the earlier part of his delivery did Lord Byron. But, to my surprise, he suddenly diverged from the written composition, with a boldness and rapidity sufficient to alarm me, lest he should fail in memory as to the conclusion. There was no failure; he came round to the close of his composition without discovering any impediment and irregularity on the whole. I questioned him, why he had altered his declamation? He declared he had made no alteration, and did not know, in speaking, that he had deviated from it one letter. I believed him, and from a knowledge of his temperament am convinced, that, fully impressed with the sense and substance of the subject, he was hurried on to expressions and colourings more striking than what his pen had expressed." DR. DRURY.]

9 [In the private volume the poem concludes thus :

Oh! could I soar above these feeble lays,
These young effusions of my early days,

To him my muse her noblest strain would give:
The song might perish, but the theme might live.
Yet why for him the needless verse essay?
His honour'd name requires no vain display:
By every son of grateful IDA blest,

It finds an echo in each youthful breast;
A fame beyond the glories of the proud,
Or all the plaudits of the venal crowd. 1

IDA! not yet exhausted is the theme,
Nor closed the progress of my youthful dream.
How many a friend deserves the grateful strain!
What scenes of childhood still unsung remain !
Yet let me hush this echo of the past,
This parting song, the dearest and the last;
And brood in secret o'er those hours of joy,
To me a silent and a sweet employ,
While future hope and fear alike unknown,
I think with pleasure on the past alone;
Yes, to the past alone my heart confine,
And chase the phantom of what once was mine.

Ina! still o'er thy hills in joy preside,
And proudly steer through time's eventful tide;
Still may thy blooming sons thy name revere,
Smile in thy bower, but quit thee with a tear; —
That tear, perhaps, the fondest which will flow,
O'er their last scene of happiness below.
Tell me, ye hoary few, who glide along,
The feeble veterans of some former throng,
Whose friends, like autumn leaves by tempests whirl'd,
Are swept for ever from this busy world;

"When, yet a novice in the mimic art,

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I feign'd the transports of a vengeful heart —
When as the Royal Slave I trod the stage,
To vent in Zanga more than mortal rage-
The praise of Probus made me feel more proud
Than all the plaudits of the list'ning crowd.

"Ah! vain endeavour in this childish strain
To soothe the woes of which I thus complain !
What can avail this fruitless loss of time,
To measure sorrow in a jingling rhyme !
No social solace from a friend is near,
And heartless strangers drop no feeling tear.
I seek not joy, in woman's sparkling eye:
The smiles of beauty cannot check the sigh.
Adieu, thou world! thy pleasure 's still a dream,
Thy virtue but a visionary theme;

Thy years of vice on years of folly roll,
Till grinning death assigns the destined goal,
Where all are hastening to the dread abode,
To meet the judgment of a righteous God;
Mix'd in the concourse of the thoughtless throng,
A mourner midst of mirth, I glide along;

A wretched, isolated, gloomy thing,
Curst by reflection's deep corroding sting;
But not that mental sting which stabs within,
The dark avenger of unpunish'd sin;

The silent shaft which goads the guilty wretch
Extended on a rack's untiring stretch:
Conscience that sting, that shaft to him supplies-
His mind the rack from which he ne'er can rise.
For me, whate'er my folly, or my fear,
One cheerful comfort still is cherish'd here:
No dread interual haunts my hours of rest,
No dreams of injured innocence infest ; *
Of hope, of peace, of almost all bereft,
Conscience, my last but welcome guest, is left.
Slander's empoison'd breath may blast my name,
Envy delights to blight the buds of fame;
Deceit may chill the current of my blood.
And freeze affection's warm impassion'd flood;
Presaging horror darken every sense; -

Even here will conscience be my best defence.

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Revolve the fleeting moments of your youth,
While Care as yet withheld her venom'd tooth;
Say if remembrance days like these endears
Beyond the rapture of succeeding years?
Say, can ambition's fever'd dream bestow
So sweet a balm to soothe your hours of woe?
Can treasures, hoarded for some thankless son,
Can royal smiles, or wreaths by slaughter won,
Can stars or ermine, man's maturer toys,
(For glittering baubles are not left to boys)
Recall one scene so much beloved to view,

As those where Youth her garland twined for you?
Ah, no! amidst the gloomy calm of age
You turn with faltering hand life's varied page;
Peruse the record of your days on earth,
Unsullied only where it marks your birth;
Still lingering pause above each chequer'd leaf,
And blot with tears the sable lines of grief;
Where Passion o'er the theme her mantle threw,
Or weeping Virtue sigh'd a faint adieu;
But bless the scroll which fairer words adorn,
Traced by the rosy finger of the morn;
When Friendship bow'd before the shrine of truth,
And Love, without his pinion 2, smiled on youth.

MONTGOMERY! true, the common lot
Of mortals lies in Lethe's wave;
Yet some shall never be forgot-

Some shall exist beyond the grave.

My bosom feeds no worm which ne'er can die :' +
Not crimes I mourn, but happiness gone by.
Thus crawling on with many a reptile vile,
My heart is bitter, though my cheek may smile:
No more with former bliss my heart is glad;
Hope yields to anguish, and my soul is sad:
From fond regret no future joy can save;
Remembrance slumbers only in the grave.'

1["To Dr. Drury," observes Moore, "Lord Byron has left on record a tribute of affection and respect, which, like the reverential regard of Dryden for Dr. Busby, will long associate together honourably the names of the poet and the master." The above is not, however, the only one. In a note to the fourth Canto of Childe Harold, he says, "My preceptor was the best and worthiest friend I ever possessed, whose warnings I have remembered but too well, though too late-when I have erred, and whose counsels I have but followed when I have done well or wisely. If ever this imperfect record of my feelings towards him should reach his eyes, let it remind him of one who never thinks of him but with gratitude and veneration of one who would more gladly boast of having been his pupil, if by more closely following his injunctions, he could reflect any honour upon his instructor." We extract the following from some unpublished letters of Lord Byron :

"Harrow, Nov. 2. 1804. There is so much of the gentleman, so much mildness and nothing of pedantry in his character, that I cannot help liking him, and will remember his instructions with gratitude as long as I live. He is the best master we ever had, and at the same time respected and feared." "Nov. 11. 1804. I revere Dr. Drury. He is never violent, never outrageous. I dread offending him;-not however, through fear; but the respect I bear him makes me unhappy when I am under his displeasure."]

2 "L'Amitié est l'Amour sans ailes." is a French proverb. [See a subsequent poem, under this title.]

3 Written by James Montgomery, author of "The Wanderer in Switzerland," &c.

["We know enough even of Lord Byron's private history to give our warrant that, though his youth may have shared somewhat too largely in the indiscretions of those left too early masters of their own actions and fortunes, falsehood and malice alone can impute to him any real cause for hopeless remorse, or gloomy melancholy.' SIR WALTER SCOTT.]

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opulent neighbours, is to be found (says Mr. Moore) "in his mortifying consciousness of the inadequacy of his own means to his rank, and the proud dread of being made to feel his own inferiority by persons to whom, in every other respect, he knew himself superior." "Mr. Becher frequently expostulated with him on this unsociableness; and one of his friendly remonstrances drew forth these lines, so remarkably prefiguring the splendid burst with which Lord Byron's volcanic genius was ere long to open upon the world.]

Oh thus, the desire in my bosom for fame

Bids me live but to hope for posterity's praise. Could I soar with the phonix on pinions of flame, With him I would wish to expire in the blaze.

For the life of a Fox, of a Chatham the death, What censure, what danger, what woe would I brave ! [breath! Their lives did not end when they yielded their Their glory illumines the gloom of their grave.

Yet why should I mingle in Fashion's full herd ? Why crouch to her leaders, or cringe to her rules? Why bend to the proud, or applaud the absurd? Why search for delight in the friendship of fools?

I have tasted the sweets and the bitters of love;
In friendship I early was taught to believe;
My passion the matrons of prudence reprove;

I have found that a friend may profess, yet deceive.

To me what is wealth? —it may pass in an hour, If tyrants prevail, or if Fortune should frown; To me what is title?-the phantom of power; To me what is fashion?—I seek but renown.

Deceit is a stranger as yet to my soul;

I still am unpractised to varnish the truth: Then why should I live in a hateful control ? Why waste upon folly the days of my youth?


THE DEATH OF CALMAR AND Orla. AN IMITATION OF MACPHERSON'S OSSIAN. 1 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 gray stone marks his 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.

From Lochlin, Swaran bounded o'er the blue waves. Erin's sons 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.

It may be necessary to observe, that the story, though considerably varied in the catastrophe, is taken froin" Nisus

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 flics. 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 locks, but strong was the arm of the king. Age withered not his powers. "Sons of Morven," said the hero, " to-morrow we meet the foc. 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 darkhaired 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 car-borne 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 dle, 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 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, Calmar 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."

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 on 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 hush'd; 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

and Euryalus," of which episode a translation is already given in the present volume.

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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: see'st 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 Conna 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 the 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 on the scattered crests of Lochlin. The din of arms came to the ear of Fingal. He strikes his shield; his sons throng around; the people pour along the heath. Ryno bounds in joy. Ossian stalks in his arms. 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 should 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.

I fear Laing's late edition has completely overthrown every hope that Macpherson's Ossian might prove the translation of a series of poems complete 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

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. Peace to thy soul, Orla! thy fame will not perish. 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 shrick around its steel. Hear thy praise, Calmar! It dwells on the voice of the mighty. Thy name shakes on the echoes of Morven. Then raise thy fair locks, son of Mora. Spread them on the arch of the rainbow; and smile through the tears of the storm." 1


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,-
"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-
"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;
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.

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