Where Passion o'er the theme her mantle threw,
Or weeping Virtue sighed a faint adieu;

But bless the scroll which fairer words adorn,
Traced by the rosy finger of the morn;

When Friendship bowed before the shrine of truth,
And Love, without his pinion, smiled on youth.

TO THE REV. J. T. BECHER.

DEAR Becher, you tell me to mix with mankind:
I cannot deny such a precept is wise;
But retirement accords with the tone of my mind:
I will not descend to a world I despise.

Did the senate or camp my exertions require, Ambition might prompt me, at once, to go forth: When infancy's years of probation expire, Perchance I may strive to distinguish my birth.

The fire in the cavern of Ætna concealed,
Still mantles unseen in its secret recess;

At length in a volume terrific revealed,

No torrent can quench it, no bounds can repress.

Oh! thus the desire in my bosom for fame

Bids me live but to hope for prosperity's praise. Could I soar with the phoenix 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! Their lives did not end when they yielded their breath,

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?

ANSWER TO A BEAUTIFUL POEM,

WRITTEN BY MONTGOMERY, ENTITLED

"THE

COMMON

LOT."

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

Some shall exist beyond the grave.

"Unknown the region of his birth,"
The hero rolls the tide of war;
Yet not unknown his martial worth,
Which glares a meteor from afar.

His joy or grief, his weal or woe,
Perchance may 'scape the page of fame;

Yet nations now unborn will know
The record of his deathless name.

The patriot's and the poet's frame

Must share the common tomb of all:
Their glory will not sleep the same;
That will arise though empires fall.

The lustre of a beauty's eye,

Assumes the ghastly stare of death;
The fair, the brave, the good must die,

And sink the yawning grave beneath.

Once more the speaking eye revives,

Still beaming through the lover's strain; For Petrarch's Laura still survives:

She died, but ne'er will die again.

The rolling seasons pass away,

And Time, untiring, waves his wing;
While honor's laurels ne'er decay,
But bloom in fresh, unfading spring.

All, all must sleep in grim repose,
Collected in the silent tomb;

The old and young, with friends and foes,
Festering alike in shrouds, consume.

The mouldering marble lasts its day,
Yet falls at length an useless fane;

To ruin's ruthless fangs a prey,

The wrecks of pillared pride remain.

What though the sculpture be destroyed, From dark oblivion meant to guard?

A bright renown shall be enjoyed

By those whose virtues claim reward.

Then do not say the common lot

Of all lies deep in Lethe's wave; Some few who ne'er will be forgot, Shall burst the bondage of the grave.

13

THE DEATH OF CALMAR AND ORLA.

AN IMITATION OF MACPHERSON'S OSSIAN.

In the twi

He lifts his

DEAR are the days of youth! Age dwells on their remembrance through the mist of time. light, he recalls the sunny hours of morn. 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 metor 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