A GREY mist hangs upon the mountain's brow,
And Autumn blackens all the vale below;
Thro' the wild heath is heard the whirlwind's roar,
Black rolls the river to its barren shore.
A lonely tree directs my wand'ring eyes,
And marks the spot where mighty Connal lies:
grave around with scatter'd leaves is spread, And ghosts are seen the desart paths to tread, Such time as, musing on great Connal's death, Stalks the lone hunter slowly o'er the heath. Who, mighty Connal, shall thy Fathers trace? Who reach the source of thine illustrious race? High as an oak, that on the mountain's breast Rears its proud head, and meets the storming East, Now torn and rooted from its native wood;
Who now shall stand where mighty Connal stood?
The din of arms, the trumpet's martial strain,
And dying groans, were heard on Fingal's Plain.
What tongue shall Fingal's mournful battles tell?
Here godlike Connal with the mightiest fell.
Yet as a storm thine arm aloft was rais'd,
Thy sword in battle like a meteor blaz'd;
Thy tow'ring stature as the mountain high,
And, as a furnace, fiery beam'd thine eye;
Thy voice, with louder than a tempest's sound,
Hush'd the wild war, and all its tumults drown'd.
Beneath thy sword fell many a warlike band
As the light thistle by the children's wand.
Dark was the mighty Dagon's low'ring brow;
He rush'd, like clouds of thunder, on his foe;
His hollow eyes like caves the rocks among:
Bright gleam'd their swords, and dire their armour rung.
Lo! Rinval's daughter midst the conflict ran,
Crimora, glitt❜ring in the arms of man :
Loose to the wind her waving tresses flow,
Within her hand she grasps the martial bow;
Well-pleas'd the toil of manlike arms to share,
With her lov'd Connal, in the fields of war.
On Dagon's breast the fatal string she drew:
Her erring hand the much-lov'd Connal slew!
Like some tall oak upon the Plain he fell,
Or huge rock tumbling from the shagged hill.
Ah, hapless Maid! what woes for her remain !
Her much-lov'd Youth lies bleeding on the Plain.
"Connal! my love, my friend!" she daily cries;
Till the sad Mourner, stung with anguish, dies.
This earth infolds them in its lowly bed,
The loveliest Pair that on the Hill were bred;
Beside their tombstone springs the verdant blade,
Sorrowing I sit beneath the mournful shade :
Deep sighs are utter'd in each breathing wind,
And their sad memory rushes on my mind.
Sleep, lovely Pair, for ages yet to come,
And rest secure within the Mountain's tomb!
INSCRIPTION FOR A MONUMENT
STOP, Soldier, stop! your Hero's sacred dust
Lies here, ennobling this triumphal Bust.
Let warlike Spirits, of less glorious name,
To sculptur'd marble owe their borrow'd fame:
But what of WOLFE can vain inscriptions tell !
He heard the shout of Victory-and fell.
THE TRAGEDY OF MARY QUEEN OF SCOTLAND; The first new Play acted after
HIS MAJESTY'S RECOVERY,
in the Spring of 1789.
WHEN o'er Sicilia's plains, from Ætna's side,
The torrid deluge spreads its ruin wide,
Tho' Heav'n the Mountain's anger should assuage
Quench its red bolts, in' mercy stop its rage;
Yet all aghast, as reels his tott'ring shed,
Already from his home the Peasant's fled.
In vain the calm succeeds, the tumult's o'er,
Still the wretch hears the lab'ring caverns roar,
Thinks he's o'ertaken by the boiling sea,
And sinks in terror, tho' from danger free:
Till from some distant spot, with glad surprise,
His unmov'd roof and standing walls he spies;
Nor, as he fear'd, beneath the fiery sway,
His all, with woods and cities, borne away.
Our Poet thus, but late reliev'd from fear,
Knows not so soon to dry the patriot tear,
The tear that stream'd so long for Britain's woe;
Tho' Heav'n in mercy has recall'd the blow,
And to a People's prayers, not breath'd in vain,
From the sad bed of sickness and of pain,
Restor❜d their Father, Friend, their KING again.
In such an hour, when every mind is fraught
With deep reflection and with sober thought,
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