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"Where now the rill, melodious, pure, and cool,
Fled each fair form, and mute each melting sound;
And hark! the river, bursting every mound, Down the vale thunders, and with wasteful sway Uproots the grove, and rolls the shattered rocks away.
"Yet such the destiny of all on earth;
So flourishes and fades majestic man.
Borne on the swift and silent wings of Time Old age comes on apace to ravage all the clime.
"And be it so.-Let those deplore their doom
Whose hopes still grovel in this dark sojourn :
Can smile at Fate, and wonder how they mourn.
Soon shall the orient with new lustre burn,
"Shall I be left forgotten, in the dust,
When Fate, relenting, lets the flower revive?
Bid him, though doomed to perish, hope to live?
No: Heaven's immortal spring shall yet arrive,
Though the author evidently intends this word to rhyme with man and span, yet the best authorities require it to be pronounced like the first syllable of wan-ton.
Pairing time anticipated.-Cowper.
I SHALL not ask Jean Jaques Rousseau*
'Tis clear that they were always able
It chanced, then, on a winter's day,
In many an orchard, copse, and grove,
And, with much twitter, and much chatter,
My friends! be cautious how
A finch, whose tongue knew no control,
"Methinks the gentleman," quoth she,
By his good will would keep us single
It was one of the whimsical speculations of this philosopher, that all fables, which ascribe reason and speech to animals, should be withheld from children, as being only vehicles of deception. But what child was ever deceived by them, or can be, against the evidence of his own senses?
Or, (which is likelier to befall)
marry without more ado :-
Dick heard, and tweedling, ogling, bridling,
But, though the birds were thus in haste,
Misses! the tale that I relate
This lesson seems to carry-
Fingal's Battle with the Spirit of Loda.-OSSIAN. MORNING rose in the east; the blue waters rolled in light. Fingal bade his sails to rise, and the winds came rustling
"It may not be improper here to observe, that the accent ought always to be placed on the last syllable of Fingâl."-McPherson's note to Fingal, B. 1.
from their hills. mossy towers.
Inistore rose to sight, and Carric-thura's But the sign of distress was on their top: the green flame edged with smoke. The king of Morven struck his breast: he assumed at once his spear. His darkened brow bends forward to the coast: he looks back to the lagging winds. His hair is disordered on his back. The silence of the king is terrible.
Night came down on the sea: Rotha's bay received the ship. A rock bends along the coast with all its echoing wood. On the top is the circle of Loda, and the mossy stone of power. A narrow plain spreads beneath, covered with grass and aged trees, which the midnight winds, in their wrath, had torn from the shaggy rock. The blue course of a stream is there: and the lonely blast of ocean pursues the thistle's beard. The flame of three oaks arose : the feast is spread around: but the soul of the king is sad for Carric-thura's battling chief.
The wan cold moon rose in the east. Sleep descended on the youths. Their blue helmets glitter to the beam: the fading fire decays. But sleep did not rest on the king: he rose in the midst of his arms, and slowly ascended the hill to behold the flame of Sarno's tower.
The flame was dim and distant; the moon hid her red face in the east. A blast came from the mountain, and bore on its wing the spirit of 'Loda. He came to his place in his terrors, and he shook his dusky spear. His eyes appear like flames in his dark face; and his voice is like distant thunder. Fingal advanced with the spear of his strength, and raised his voice on high.
"Son of night, retire: call thy winds and fly: Why dost thou come to my presence with thy shadowy arms? Do I fear thy gloomy form, dismal spirit of Loda? Weak is thy shield of clouds: feeble is that meteor, thy sword. The blast rolls them together, and thou thyself dost vanish. Fly from my presence, son of night! call thy wings and fly!"
"Dost thou force me from my place," replied the hollow voice: "The people bend before me. I turn the battle in the field of the valiant. I look on the nations and they vanish my nostrils pour the blast of death. I come abroad on the winds: the tempests are before my face. But my dwelling is calm, above the clouds; the fields of my rest are pleasant."
"Dwell then in thy calm field," said Fingâl, "and let Comhal's son be forgot. Do my steps ascend, from my hills,
into thy peaceful plains? Do I meet thee, with a spear, on thy cloud, spirit of dismal Loda? Why, then, dost thou frown on Fingâl? Or shake thine airy spear? But thou frownest in vain : I never fled from mighty men. And shall the sons of the wind frighten the king of Morven ! No: he knows the weakness of their arms."
Fly to thy land," replied the form: "receive the wind and fly. The blasts are in the hollow of my hand: the course of the storm is mine. The king of Sora is my son, he bends at the stone of my power. His battle is around Carric-thura; and he will prevail. Fly to thy land, son of Comhal, or feel my flaming wrath."
He lifted high his shadowy spear; and bent forward his terrible height. But the king, advancing, drew his sword; the blade of dark-brown Luno. The gleaming path of the steel winds through the gloomy ghost. The form fell shapeless into air, like a column of smoke, which the staff of the boy disturbs, as it rises from the half-extinguished furnace.
The spirit of Loda shrieked, as, rolled into himself, he rose on the wind. Inistore shook at the sound. The waves heard it on the deep: they stopped, in their course, with fear the companions of Fingâl started, at once; and took their heavy spears. They missed the king; they rose with rage all their arms resound.
The moon came forth in the east. The king returned in the gleam of his arms. The joy of his youths was great; their souls settled, as a sea from a storm. Ullin raised the song of gladness. The hills of Inistore rejoiced. The flame of the oak arose; and the tales of heroes are told.
Death of Carthon.-Ossian's address to the Sun.—THE SAME.
THE battle ceased along the field, for the bard had sung the song of peace. The chiefs gathered round the falling Carthon, and heard his words, with sighs. Silent they leaned on their spears, while Balclutha's hero spoke. His hair sighed in the wind, and his words were feeble.
"King of Morven," Carthon said, "I fall in the midst of my course. A foreign tomb receives, in youth, the last of Reuthamir's race. Darkness dwells in Balclutha and