Byron's Poetical Works, Volume 1

AN IMITATION OF MACPHERSON’S “OSSIAN”.

Dear are the days of youth!  Age dwells on their remembrance through the mist of time.  In the twilight he recalls the sunny hours of morn.  He lifts his 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 grey 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; [i] but mild was the eye of Calmar; soft was the flow of his yellow locks:  they streamed like the meteor 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. [ii] Their ships cover the ocean!  Their hosts throng on the green hills.  They come to the aid of Erin.

Night rose in clouds.  Darkness veils the armies.  But the blazing oaks gleam through the valley. [iii] The sons of Lochlin slept:  their dreams were of blood.  They lift the spear in thought, and Fingal flies.  Not so the Host of Morven.  To watch was the post of Orla.  Calmar stood by his side.  Their spears were in their hands.  Fingal called his chiefs:  they stood around.  The king was in the midst.  Grey were his locks, but strong was the arm of the king.  Age withered not his powers.  “Sons of Morven,” said the hero, “to-morrow we meet the foe.  But where is Cuthullin, the shield of Erin?  He rests in the halls of Tura; he knows not of our coming.  Who will speed through Lochlin, to the hero, and call the chief to arms?  The path is by the swords of foes; but many are my heroes.  They are thunderbolts of war.  Speak, ye chiefs!  Who will arise?”

“Son of Trenmor! mine be the deed,” said dark-haired Orla, “and mine alone.  What is death to me?  I love the sleep of the mighty, but little is the danger.  The sons of Lochlin dream.  I will seek car-borne Cuthullin.  If I fall, raise the song of bards; and lay me by the stream of Lubar.”—­“And shalt thou fall alone?” said fair-haired Calmar.  “Wilt thou leave thy friend afar?  Chief of Oithona! not feeble is my arm in fight.  Could I see thee die, and not lift the spear?  No, Orla! ours has been the chase of the roebuck, and the feast of shells; ours be the path of danger:  ours has been the cave of Oithona; ours be the narrow dwelling on the banks of Lubar.”—­“Calmar,” said the chief of Oithona, “why should thy yellow locks be darkened in the dust of Erin?  Let me fall alone.  My father dwells in his hall of air:  he will rejoice in his boy; but the blue-eyed Mora spreads the feast for her Son in Morven.  She listens to the steps of the hunter on the heath, and thinks it is the tread of Calmar.  Let her not say, ’Calmar has fallen by the steel of Lochlin:  he died with gloomy Orla, the chief of the dark brow.’  Why should tears dim the azure eye of Mora?  Why should her voice curse Orla, the destroyer of Calmar?  Live Calmar!  Live to raise my stone of moss; live to revenge me in the blood of Lochlin.  Join the song of bards above my grave.  Sweet will be the song of Death to Orla, from the voice of Calmar.  My ghost shall smile on the notes of Praise.”  “Orla,” said the son of Mora, “could I raise the song of Death to my friend?  Could I give his fame to the winds?  No, my heart would speak in sighs:  faint and broken are the sounds of sorrow.  Orla! our souls shall hear the song together.  One cloud shall be ours on high:  the bards will mingle the names of Orla and Calmar.”

They quit the circle of the Chiefs.  Their steps are to the Host of Lochlin.  The dying blaze of oak dim-twinkles through the night.  The northern star points the path to Tura.  Swaran, the King, rests on his lonely hill.  Here the troops are mixed:  they frown in sleep; their shields beneath their heads.  Their swords gleam, at distance in heaps.  The fires are faint; their embers fail in smoke.  All is hushed; but the gale sighs on the rocks above.  Lightly wheel the Heroes through the slumbering band.  Half the journey is past, when Mathon, resting on his shield, meets the eye of Orla.  It rolls in flame, and glistens through the shade.  His spear is raised on high.  “Why dost thou bend thy brow, chief of Oithona?” said fair-haired Calmar:  “we are in the midst of foes.  Is this a time for delay?” “It is a time for vengeance,” said Orla of the gloomy brow.  “Mathon of Lochlin sleeps:  seest thou his spear?  Its point is dim with the gore of my father.  The blood of Mathon shall reek on mine:  but shall I slay him sleeping, Son of Mora?  No! he shall feel his wound:  my fame shall not soar on the blood of slumber.  Rise, Mathon, rise!  The Son of Conna calls; thy life is his; rise to combat.”  Mathon starts from sleep:  but did he rise alone?  No:  the gathering Chiefs bound on the plain.  “Fly!  Calmar, fly!” said dark-haired Orla.  “Mathon is mine.  I shall die in joy:  but Lochlin crowds around.  Fly through the shade of night.”  Orla turns.  The helm of Mathon is cleft; his shield falls from his arm:  he shudders in his blood. [i] He rolls by the side of the blazing oak.  Strumon sees him fall:  his wrath rises:  his weapon glitters on the head of Orla:  but a spear pierced his eye.  His brain gushes through the wound, and foams on the spear of Calmar.  As roll the waves of the Ocean on two mighty barks of the North, so pour the men of Lochlin on the Chiefs.  As, breaking the surge in foam, proudly steer the barks of the North, so rise the Chiefs of Morven on the scattered crests of Lochlin.  The din of arms came to the ear of Fingal.  He strikes his shield; his sons throng around; the people pour along the heath.  Ryno bounds in joy.  Ossian stalks in his arms.  Oscar shakes the spear.  The eagle wing of Fillan floats on the wind.  Dreadful is the clang of death! many are the Widows of Lochlin.  Morven prevails in its strength.

Morn glimmers on the hills:  no living foe is seen; but the sleepers are many; grim they lie on Erin.  The breeze of Ocean lifts their locks; yet they do not awake.  The hawks scream above their prey.

Whose yellow locks wave o’er the breast of a chief?  Bright as the gold of the stranger, they mingle with the dark hair of his friend.  ’Tis Calmar:  he lies on the bosom of Orla.  Theirs is one stream of blood.  Fierce is the look of the gloomy Orla.  He breathes not; but his eye is still a flame.  It glares in death unclosed.  His hand is grasped in Calmar’s; but Calmar lives! he lives, though low.  “Rise,” said the king, “rise, son of Mora:  ’tis mine to heal the wounds of Heroes.  Calmar may yet bound on the hills of Morven.” [v]

“Never more shall Calmar chase the deer of Morven with Orla,” said the Hero.  “What were the chase to me alone?  Who would share the spoils of battle with Calmar?  Orla is at rest!  Rough was thy soul, Orla! yet soft to me as the dew of morn.  It glared on others in lightning:  to me a silver beam of night.  Bear my sword to blue-eyed Mora; let it hang in my empty hall.  It is not pure from blood:  but it could not save Orla.  Lay me with my friend:  raise the song when I am dark!”

They are laid by the stream of Lubar.  Four grey stones mark the dwelling of Orla and Calmar.  When Swaran was bound, our sails rose on the blue waves.  The winds gave our barks to Morven:—­the bards raised the song.

“What Form rises on the roar of clouds?  Whose dark Ghost gleams on the red streams of tempests?  His voice rolls on the thunder.  ’Tis Orla, the brown Chief of Oithona.  He was unmatched in war.  Peace to thy soul, Orla! thy fame will not perish.  Nor thine, Calmar!  Lovely wast thou, son of blue-eyed Mora; but not harmless was thy sword.  It hangs in thy cave.  The Ghosts of Lochlin shriek around its steel.  Hear thy praise, Calmar!  It dwells on the voice of the mighty.  Thy name shakes on the echoes of Morven.  Then raise thy fair locks, son of Mora.  Spread them on the arch of the rainbow, and smile through the tears of the storm. [3]

[Footnote 1:  The MS. is preserved at Newstead.]

[Footnote 2:  It may be necessary to observe, that the story, though considerably varied in the catastrophe, is taken from “Nisus and Euryalus,” of which episode a translation is already given in the present volume [see pp. 151-168].]

[Footnote 3:  I fear Laing’s late edition has completely overthrown every hope that Macpherson’s ‘Ossian’ might prove the translation of a series of poems complete in themselves; but, while the imposture is discovered, the merit of the work remains undisputed, though not without faults—­particularly, in some parts, turgid and bombastic diction.—­The present humble imitation will be pardoned by the admirers of the original as an attempt, however inferior, which evinces an attachment to their favourite author. [Malcolm Laing (1762-1818) published, in 1802, a ‘History of Scotland, etc.’, with a dissertation “on the supposed authenticity of Ossian’s Poems,” and, in 1805, a work entitled ’The Poems of Ossian, etc., containing the Poetical Works of James Macpherson, Esq., in Prose and Rhyme, with Notes and Illustrations’.]

[Footnote i: 

  ‘Erin’s sons—­’.

[’MS. Newstead’.]]

[Footnote ii: 

  ‘The horn of Fingal—­’.

[’MS. Newstead’.]]

[Footnote iii: 

  ‘—­the fires gleam—­’.

[’MS. Newstead’.]]

[Footnote iv: 

  ‘He trembles in his blood.  He rolls convulsive.’

[’MS. Newstead’.]]

[Footnote v: 

  ‘—­the mountain of Morven.’

[’MS. Newstead’.]]

TO EDWARD NOEL LONG, ESQ. i

    “Nil ego contulerim jucundo sanus amico.”—­HORACE.

  Dear LONG, in this sequester’d scene,

    While all around in slumber lie,
  The joyous days, which ours have been
    Come rolling fresh on Fancy’s eye;
  Thus, if, amidst the gathering storm,
  While clouds the darken’d noon deform,
  Yon heaven assumes a varied glow,
  I hail the sky’s celestial bow,
  Which spreads the sign of future peace,
  And bids the war of tempests cease. 
  Ah! though the present brings but pain,
  I think those days may come again;
  Or if, in melancholy mood,
  Some lurking envious fear intrude, [iii]
  To check my bosom’s fondest thought,
    And interrupt the golden dream,
  I crush the fiend with malice fraught,
    And, still, indulge my wonted theme. 
  Although we ne’er again can trace,
    In Granta’s vale, the pedant’s lore,
  Nor through the groves of Ida chase
    Our raptured visions, as before;
  Though Youth has flown on rosy pinion,
  And Manhood claims his stern dominion,
  Age will not every hope destroy,
  But yield some hours of sober joy.

    Yes, I will hope that Time’s broad wing
  Will shed around some dews of spring: 
  But, if his scythe must sweep the flowers
  Which bloom among the fairy bowers,
  Where smiling Youth delights to dwell,
  And hearts with early rapture swell;
  If frowning Age, with cold controul,
  Confines the current of the soul,
  Congeals the tear of Pity’s eye,
  Or checks the sympathetic sigh,
  Or hears, unmov’d, Misfortune’s groan
  And bids me feel for self alone;
  Oh! may my bosom never learn
    To soothe its wonted heedless flow; [iv]
  Still, still, despise the censor stern,
    But ne’er forget another’s woe. 
  Yes, as you knew me in the days,
    O’er which Remembrance yet delays, [v]
  Still may I rove untutor’d, wild,
    And even in age, at heart a child. [vi]

  Though, now, on airy visions borne,
    To you my soul is still the same. 
  Oft has it been my fate to mourn, [vii]
    And all my former joys are tame: 
  But, hence! ye hours of sable hue! 
    Your frowns are gone, my sorrows o’er: 
  By every bliss my childhood knew,
    I’ll think upon your shade no more. 
  Thus, when the whirlwind’s rage is past,
    And caves their sullen roar enclose [viii]
  We heed no more the wintry blast,
    When lull’d by zephyr to repose. 
  Full often has my infant Muse,
    Attun’d to love her languid lyre;
  But, now, without a theme to choose,
    The strains in stolen sighs expire. 
  My youthful nymphs, alas! are flown; [ix]
    E——­is a wife, and C——­a mother,
  And Carolina sighs alone,
    And Mary’s given to another;
  And Cora’s eye, which roll’d on me,
    Can now no more my love recall—­
  In truth, dear LONG, ’twas time to flee—­[x]
    For Cora’s eye will shine on all. 
  And though the Sun, with genial rays,
  His beams alike to all displays,
  And every lady’s eye’s a sun,
  These last should be confin’d to one. 
  The soul’s meridian don’t become her, [xi]
  Whose Sun displays a general summer! 
  Thus faint is every former flame,
  And Passion’s self is now a name;

  As, when the ebbing flames are low,
    The aid which once improv’d their light,
  And bade them burn with fiercer glow,
    Now quenches all their sparks in night;
  Thus has it been with Passion’s fires,
    As many a boy and girl remembers,
  While all the force of love expires,
    Extinguish’d with the dying embers.

    But now, dear LONG, ’tis midnight’s noon,
  And clouds obscure the watery moon,
  Whose beauties I shall not rehearse,
  Describ’d in every stripling’s verse;
  For why should I the path go o’er
  Which every bard has trod before? [xiv]
  Yet ere yon silver lamp of night
    Has thrice perform’d her stated round,
  Has thrice retrac’d her path of light,
    And chas’d away the gloom profound,
  I trust, that we, my gentle Friend,
  Shall see her rolling orbit wend,
  Above the dear-lov’d peaceful seat,
  Which once contain’d our youth’s retreat;
  And, then, with those our childhood knew,
  We’ll mingle in the festive crew;
  While many a tale of former day
  Shall wing the laughing hours away;
  And all the flow of souls shall pour
  The sacred intellectual shower,
  Nor cease, till Luna’s waning horn,
  Scarce glimmers through the mist of Morn.

[Footnote 1:  The MS. of these verses is at Newstead.  Long was with Byron at Harrow, and was the only one of his intimate friends who went up at the same time as he did to Cambridge, where both were noted for feats of swimming and diving.  Long entered the Guards, and served in the expedition to Copenhagen.  He was drowned early in 1809, when on his way to join the army in the Peninsula; the transport in which he sailed being run down in the night by another of the convoy.  “Long’s father,” says Byron, “wrote to me to write his son’s epitaph.  I promised—­but I had not the heart to complete it.  He was such a good, amiable being as rarely remains long in this world; with talent and accomplishments, too, to make him the more regretted.”—­’Diary’, 1821; ‘Life’, p. 32.  See also memorandum (’Life’, p. 31, col. ii.).]

[Footnote i: 

  ‘To E. N. L. Esq.’

[’Hours of Idleness.  Poems O. and T.’] ]

[Footnote ii: 

  ‘Dear L——.’

[’Hours of Idleness.  Poems O. and T.’] ]

[Footnote iii: 

  ‘Some daring envious.’

[’MS. Newstead.’] ]

[Footnote iv: 

  ‘its young romantic flow.’

  [’MS. Newstead.’] ]

[Footnote v: 

  ’O’er which my fancy’—.

[’MS. Newstead.’] ]

[Footnote vi: 

  ’Still may my breast to boyhood cleave,
  With every early passion heave;
  Still may I rove untutored, wild,
  But never cease to seem a child.’—­

[’MS. Newstead.’] ]

[Footnote vii: 

  ‘Since we have met, I learnt to mourn.’

[’MS. Newstead.’] ]

[Footnote viii: 

  ’And caves their sullen war’—.

[’MS. Newstead.’] ]

[Footnote ix: 

  ‘—­thank Heaven are flown’.

[’MS. Newstead’.]]

[Footnote x: 

  ‘In truth dear L——­’.

[’Hours of Idleness.  Poems O. and T.] ]

[Footnote xi: 

  ‘The glances really don’t become her’.

[’MS. Newstead’.]]

[Footnote xii: 

  ‘No more I linger on its name’.

[’MS. Newstead’.]]

[Footnote xiii: 

  ‘And passion’s self is but a name’.

[’MS. Newstead’.]]

[Footnote xiv: 

  ’And what’s much worse than this I find
  Have left their deepen’d tracks behind
  Yet as yon’——.

[’MS. Newstead’.]]

TO A LADY. [i]

1.

  Oh! had my Fate been join’d with thine, [1]
    As once this pledge appear’d a token,
  These follies had not, then, been mine,
    For, then, my peace had not been broken.

2.

  To thee, these early faults I owe,
    To thee, the wise and old reproving: 
  They know my sins, but do not know
    ’Twas thine to break the bonds of loving.

3.

  For once my soul, like thine, was pure,
    And all its rising fires could smother;
  But, now, thy vows no more endure,
    Bestow’d by thee upon another. [1]

4.

  Perhaps, his peace I could destroy,
    And spoil the blisses that await him;
  Yet let my Rival smile in joy,
    For thy dear sake, I cannot hate him.

5.

  Ah! since thy angel form is gone,
    My heart no more can rest with any;
  But what it sought in thee alone,
    Attempts, alas! to find in many.

6.

  Then, fare thee well, deceitful Maid! 
    ’Twere vain and fruitless to regret thee;
  Nor Hope, nor Memory yield their aid,
    But Pride may teach me to forget thee.

7.

  Yet all this giddy waste of years,
    This tiresome round of palling pleasures;
  These varied loves, these matrons’ fears,
    These thoughtless strains to Passion’s measures—­

8.

  If thou wert mine, had all been hush’d:—­
    This cheek, now pale from early riot,
  With Passion’s hectic ne’er had flush’d,
    But bloom’d in calm domestic quiet.

9.

  Yes, once the rural Scene was sweet,
    For Nature seem’d to smile before thee;
  And once my Breast abhorr’d deceit,—­
    For then it beat but to adore thee.

10.

  But, now, I seek for other joys—­
    To think, would drive my soul to madness;
  In thoughtless throngs, and empty noise,
    I conquer half my Bosom’s sadness.

11.

  Yet, even in these, a thought will steal,
    In spite of every vain endeavour;
  And fiends might pity what I feel—­
    To know that thou art lost for ever.

[Footnote 1:  These verses were addressed to Mrs. Chaworth Musters.  Byron wrote in 1822,

“Our meetings were stolen ones. ...  A gate leading from Mr. Chaworth’s grounds to those of my mother was the place of our interviews.  The ardour was all on my side.  I was serious; she was volatile:  she liked me as a younger brother, and treated and laughed at me as a boy; she, however, gave me her picture, and that was something to make verses upon.  Had I married her, perhaps, the whole tenour of my life would have been different.”

Medwin’s ‘Conversations’, 1824, p. 81.]

[Footnote i: 

<i>To------.</i>

[’Hours of Idleness.  Poems O. and T.’]]

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