Carthon." the shadows of grief in Crathmo. But raise my remembrance on the banks of Lora, where my fathers dwelt. Perhaps the husband of Moina will mourn over his fallen His words reached the heart of Clessàmmor : he fell, in silence, on his son. The host stood darkened around: no voice is on the plains of Lora. Night came, and the moon, from the east, looked on the mournful field: but still they stood, like a silent grove that lifts its head on Gormal, when the loud winds are laid, and dark autumn is on the plain. Three days they mourned over Carthon: on the fourth his father died. In the narrow plain of the rock they lie; and a dim ghost defends their tomb. There lovely Moina is often seen; when the sun-beam darts on the rock, and all around is dark. There she is seen, Malvina, but not like the daughters of the hill. Her robes are from the stranger's land; and she is still alone. Fingal was sad for Carthon; he desired his bards to mark the day, when shadowy autûmn returned. And often did they mark the day, and sing the hero's praise. "Who comes so dark from ocean's roar, like autumn's shadowy cloud? Death is trembling in his hand! his eyes are flames of fire! Who roars along dark Lora's heath? Who but Carthon king of swords? The people fall! see! how he strides, like the sullen ghost of Morven! But there he lies, : a goodly oak, which sudden blasts overturned! When shalt thou rise, Balclutha's joy! lovely car-borne Carthon? Who comes so dark from ocean's roar, like autumn's shadowy cloud?" Such were the words of the bards, in the day of their mourning I have accompanied their voice; and added to their song. My soul has been mournful for Carthon, he fell in the days of his valor: and thou, O Clessàmmor! where is thy dwelling in the air? Has the youth forgot his wound? And flies he, on the clouds, with thee? I feel the sun, O Malvina; leave me to my rest. Perhaps they may come to my dreams; I think I hear a feeble voice. The beam of heaven delights to shine on the grave of Carthon : I feel it warm around. O thou that rollest above, round as the shield of my fathers! Whence are thy beams, O sun! thy everlasting light? Thou comest forth, in thy awful beauty, and the stars hide themselves in the sky; the moon, cold and pale, sinks in the western wave. But thou thyself movest alone: who can be a companion of thy course? The oaks of the mountains fall: the mountains themselves decay with years; the ocean shrinks and grows again: the moon herself is lost in heaven; but thou art for ever the same, rejoicing in the brightness of thy course. When the world is dark with tempests; when thunder rolls, and lightning flies; thou lookest in thy beauty, from the clouds, and laughest at the storm. But to Ossian, thou lookest in vain; for he beholds thy beams no more; whether thy yellow hair flows on the eastern clouds, or thou tremblest at the gates of the west. But thou art perhaps, like me, for a season, and thy years will have an end. Thou shalt sleep in thy clouds, careless of the voice of the morning. Exult then, O sun, in the strength of thy youth! Age is dark and unlovely; it is like the glimmering light of the moon, when it shines through broken clouds, and the mist is on the hills; the blast of the north is on the plain, the traveller shrinks in the midst of his journey. LESSON CXXX. Apostrophe to the Sun.-J. G. PERCIVAL. CENTRE of light and energy! thy way Is through the unknown void; thou hast thy throne, Morning, and evening, and at noon of day, Far in the blue, untended and alone: Ere the first-wakened airs of earth had blown, On didst thou march, triumphant in thy light; Then didst thou send thy glance, which still hath flown Wide through the never-ending worlds of night, And yet thy full orb burns with flash unquenched and bright Thy path is high in heaven ;—we cannot gaze One of the sparks of night, that fire the air; So thou, too, hast thy path around the Central Soul. * Thou lookest on the earth, and then it smiles; Thy light is hid, and all things droop and mourn; Laughs the wide sea around her budding isles, When through their heaven thy changing car is borne ; Thou wheel'st away thy flight, the woods are shorn Of all their waving locks, and storms awake; All, that was once so beautiful, is torn By the wild winds which plough the lonely lake, The earth lies buried in a shroud of snow; Of their chilled frames, and then they proudly spurn All bands that would confine, and give to air Hues, fragrance, shapes of beauty, till they burn, When, on a dewy morn, thou dartest there Rich waves of gold to wreath with fairer light the fair. The vales are thine:-and when the touch of Spring And leaves behind a wave, that crinkles bright, The vales are thine; and when they wake from night, The hills are thine :-they catch thy newest beam, Bursts from an unknown land, and rolls the food Flow and give brighter tints, than ever bud, When a clear sheet of ice reflects a blaze Of many twinkling gems, as every glossed bough plays. Thine are the mountains,-where they purely lift Dazzling but cold ;-thy farewell glance looks there, And when below thy hues of beauty die, The clouds are thine; and all their magic hues Their waving folds with such a perfect glow * These are thy trophies, and thou bend'st thy arch, The ocean is thy vassal;-thou dost sway Thou lookest on the waters, and they glow, And change to clouds, and then, dissolving, throw Their treasures back to earth, and, rushing, tear The mountain and the vale, as proudly on they bear. In thee, first light, the bounding ocean smiles, I hurry o'er the waters when the sail Swells tensely, and the light keel glances well Over the curling billow, and the gale Comes off from spicy groves to tell its winning tale. LESSON CXXXI. Apostrophe to the Ocean.-BYRON. THERE is a pleasure in the pathless woods, By the deep sea, and music in its roar. From all I may be, or have been before, Roll on, thou deep and dark blue ocean-roll! When for a moment, like a drop of rain, The armaments which thunderstrike the walls Of lord of thee, and arbiter of war; These are thy toys, and, as the snowy flake, They melt into thy yest of waves, which mar Alike the Armada's pride, or spoils of Trafalgar. Thy shores are empires, changed in all save thee— Unchangeable save to thy wild waves' play- |