Alpin. My tears, O Ryno! are for the dead; my voice for those that have passed away. Tall thou art on the 175 hill; fair among the sons of the vale. But thou shalt fall like Morar; the mourner shall sit on thy tomb. The hills shall know thee no more; thy bow shall lie in thy hall, unstrung! 180 Thou wert swift, O Morar! as a roe on the desert; terrible as a meteor of fire. Thy wrath was as the storm. Thy sword in battle, as lightning in the field. Thy voice was a stream 185 after rain, like thunder on distant hills. Many fell by thy arm; they were consumed in the flames of thy wrath. But when thou didst return from war, how peaceful was thy 190 brow! Thy face was like the sun after rain; like the moon in the silence of night; calm as the breast of the lake when the loud wind is laid. 195 Narrow is thy dwelling now; dark the place of thine abode! With three steps I compass thy grave, O thou who wast so great before! Four stones, with their heads of moss, are 200 the only memorial of thee. A tree with scarce a leaf, long grass which whistles in the wind, mark to the hunter's eye the grave of the mighty Morar. Morar! thou art low indeed. 205 Thou hast no mother to mourn thee; no maid with her tears of love. Dead is she that brought thee forth. Fallen is the daughter of Morglan. Who on his staff is this? who is 210 this whose head is white with age? whose eyes are red with tears? who quakes at every step? It is thy father, O Morar! the father of no son but thee. He heard of thy fame 215 in war; he heard of foes dispersed; he heard of Morar's renown; why did he not hear of his wound? Weep, thou father of Morar! weep; but thy son heareth thee not. Deep is the sleep of the dead; low their 220 pillow of dust. No more shall he hear thy voice; no more awake at thy call. When shall it be morn in the grave, to bid the slumberer awake? Farewell, thou bravest of 225 men! thou conqueror in the field! but the field shall see thee no more; nor the dark wood be lightened with the splendour of thy steel. Thou hast left no son. The song shall 230 preserve thy name. Future times shall hear of thee; they shall hear of the fallen Morar! Is 240 The grief of all arose, but most the bursting sigh of Armin. He re- 235 members the death of his son, who fell in the days of his youth. Carmor was near the hero, the chief of the echoing Galmal. Why bursts the sigh of Armin? he said. there a cause to mourn? The song comes, with its music, to melt and please the soul. It is like soft mist, that, rising from a lake, pours on the silent vale; the green flowers are 245 filled with dew, but the sun returns in his strength, and the mist is gone. Why art thou sad, O Armin, chief of sea-surrounded Gorma? Sad I am! nor small is my cause 250 of woe! Carmor, thou hast lost no son; thou hast lost no daughter of beauty. Colgar the valiant lives; and Annira, fairest maid. The boughs of thy house ascend, O Carmor! but 255 Armin is the last of his race. Dark is thy bed, O Daura! deep thy sleep in the tomb! When shalt thou awake with thy songs? with all thy voice of music? 260 Arise, winds of autumn, arise; blow along the heath! streams of the mountains, roar! roar, tempests, in the groves of my oaks! walk through broken clouds, O moon! 265 show thy pale face at intervals! bring to my mind the night when all my children fell; when Arindal the mighty fell; when Daura the 270 lovely failed! Daura, my daughter! thou wert fair; fair as the moon on Fura; white as the driven snow; sweet as the breathing gale. Arindal, thy bow was strong. Thy spear was 275 swift in the field. Thy look was like mist on the wave; thy shield, a red cloud in a storm. Armar, renowned in war, came, and sought Daura's love. He was not long refused; fair 280 was the hope of their friends! Erath, son of Odgal, repined; his brother had been slain by Armar. He came disguised like a son of the sea; fair was his skiff on the wave; 285 white his locks of age; calm his serious brow. Fairest of women, he said, lovely daughter of Armin! a rock not distant in the sea bears a tree on its side; red shines the fruit 290 afar! There Armar waits for Daura. I come to carry his love! She went; she called on Armar. Nought answered but the son of the rock. Armar, my love! my love! why tor295 mentest thou me with fear? hear, son of Arnart, hear; it is Daura who calleth thee! Erath the traitor fled laughing to the land. She lifted up her voice; she called for her brother 300 and her father. Arindal! Armin! none to relieve your Daura! Her voice came over the sea. Arindal my son descended from the hill; rough in spoils of the chase. His 305 arrows rattled by his side; his bow was in his hand; five dark-grey dogs attended his steps. He saw fierce Erath on the shore; he seized and bound him to an oak. Thick wind 310 the thongs of the hide around his limbs; he loads the wind with his groans. Arindal ascends the deep in his boat, to bring Daura to land. Armar came in his wrath, and let 318 fly the grey-feathered shaft. It sung; it sunk in thy heart, O Arindal, my son! for Erath the traitor thou diedst. Herrig-Forster, British Authors. The oar is stopped at once; he panted on the rock, and expired. What is thy grief, O Daura, when round 320 thy feet is poured thy brother's blood! The boat is broken in twain. Armar plunges into the sea, to rescue his Daura, or die. Sudden a blast from the hill came over the waves. He 325 sunk, and he rose no more. Alone, on the sea-beat rock, my daughter was heard to complain. Frequent and loud were her cries. What could her father do? All 330 night I stood on the shore. I saw her by the faint beam of the moon. All night I heard her cries. Loud was the wind; the rain beat hard on the hill. Before morning appeared, 335 her voice was weak. It died away, like the evening breeze among the grass of the rocks. Spent with grief she expired; and left thee, Armin, alone. Gone is my strength in war! 340 fallen my pride among women! When the storms aloft arise, when the north lifts the wave on high, I sit by the sounding shore, and look on the fatal rock. Often by the setting 345 moon I see the ghosts of my children. Half viewless they walk in mournful conference together. Will none of you speak in pity? regard their father. Carmor, nor small is woe! They do not I am sad, O 350 my cause of Such were the words of the bards in the days of song; when the king heard the music of harps, the tales 355 of other times! The chiefs gathered from all their hills, and heard the lovely sound. They praised the voice of Cona; the first among a thousand bards. But age is now on my 360 tongue; my soul has failed! I hear, at times, the ghosts of bards, and learn their pleasant song. But memory fails on my mind. I hear the call of years! They say, as they 365 pass along, why does Ossian sing? 18 Soon shall he lie in the narrow house, and no bard shall raise his fame! Roll on, ye dark-brown years; 370 ye bring no joy on your course! Let the tomb open to Ossian, for his strength has failed. The sons of TH song are gone to rest. My voice THOMAS CHATTERTON. HOMAS CHATTERTON (1752—1770), the posthumous son of a poor schoolmaster, was born at Bristol in the close neighbourhood of the fine old church of St. Mary Redcliffe, which was his haunt in his boyish days. At the age of fourteen he was bound to a Bristol attorney, with whom he stayed for three years, copying legal documents and spending all his spare time in reading and dreaming of medieval life and antiquities. But he found the legal profession too dull, and so, in the spring of 1770, went to London to try literature. Not meeting, however, with any immediate success, and left without resources, he poisoned himself in his Holborn garret on 24th August, having not yet reached eighteen. The outcome of Chatterton's passion for the romantic past was that, spurred on by the vanity and the antiquarian zeal of some of his Bristol patrons, he fabricated old documents, and produced a mass of prose and poetry, written in a quaint pseudo-antique language and purporting to be composed by a 15th century priest, Thomas Rowley. These so-called Rowley Poems (1768-1770) were, with the exception of a few, not printed till after his death, when an elaborate edition (1777) by T. Tyrwhitt, the famous editor of Chaucer, raised a short controversy about their genuineness. Chatterton's poetry had a great influence on the New Romantic School, especially on Coleridge and Keats. AN EXCELLENT BALLAD OF CHARITY: AS WRITTEN BY THE GOOD PRIEST THOMAS ROWLEY, 1464. [Comp. ab. 1770—publ. 1777] In Virginë the sultry sun 'gan sheen 6 The pied chelandry sang the livelong day; And eke the ground was dight in its most deft aumere. The sun was gleaming in the mid of day, And the black tempest swelled, and gathered up apace. 16 Beneath an holm, fast by a pathway-side, A hapless pilgrim moaning did abide, Poor in his view, ungentle in his weed, Long bretful of the miseries of need. 20 Where from the hail-stone could the almer fly? He had no housen there, ne any convent nigh. Look in his glummed face; his sprite there scan, Cold as the clay which will grow on thy head, Knightës and barons live for pleasure and themselves. The gathered storm is ripe; the big drops fall; 85 And the hot fiery smoke in the wide lowings dies. List! now the thunder's rattling clamming sound 40 The winds are up; the lofty elmen swangs; Again the levin and the thunder pours, And the full clouds are brast at once in stonen showers. Spurring his palfrey o'er the wat'ry plain, The Abbot of Saint Godwin's convent came; 45 His chapournet was drenched with the rain, And his paint girdle met with mickle shame; He 'gainward told his bead-roll at the same. The storm increased, and he drew aside, With the poor alms-craver near to the holm to bide. 50 His cope was all of Lincoln cloth so fine, 'An alms, Sir Priest!' the dropping pilgrim said, 'O let me wait within your convent-door, Till the sun shineth high above our head, co And the loud tempest of the air is o'er; Helpless and old am I, alas! and poor; No house, ne friend, ne money in my pouch; 'Varlet,' replied the Abbot, 'cease your din; None touch my ring who not in honour live.' 70 The Abbot spurred his steed, and eftsoons rode away. Once mo the sky was black, the thunder roll'd: And from the pathway-side then turned he, 'An alms, Sir Priest!' the dropping pilgrim said, We are God's stewards all, nought of our own we bear. 85 'But ah! unhappy pilgrim, learn of me; Scarce any give a rent-roll to their Lord: Here, take my semicope, thou'rt bare, I see; 90 Virgin and holy Saints, who sit in gloure, Or give the mighty will, or give the good man power! DAVID DAVID HUME (1711–1776) was born at Edinburgh, of an ancient Scottish family. He studied law at the University of his native town, but felt more attracted by literature and philosophy, to which he devoted himself exclusively during a three years' stay at Rheims and La Flèche. He brought home from France the first exposition of his philosophy, A Treatise of Human Nature, which, however, on its publication in 1739, attracted little notice. In vain he hoped for a professorship in one of the Scottish Universities, and tried HUME. employments as tutor, judge-advocate, and secretary instead. When, in 1752, he was appointed Keeper of the famous Advocates' Library at Edinburgh, he took the opportunity of collecting materials for his great History of England, which appeared from 1754-1762 (in 6 vols.), and slowly won the recognition of the reading public. As secretary to the British Embassy he spent another three years in Paris (1763-1766), where he was enthusiastically received by the French Encyclopedists. In 1767 he accepted the post of |