This will recall each youthful scene, E'en when our lives are on the wane; The leaves of Love will still be green When Memory bids them bud again. Oh! little lock of golden hue, In gently waving ringlet curl'd, Not though a thousand more adorn Like 1806. [Now first published.] REMEMBRANCE. 'Tis done! I saw it in my dreams : No more with Hope the future beams; My days of happiness are few: Chill'd by misfortune's wintry blast, My dawn of life is overcast, Love, Hope, and Joy, alike adieu! Would I could add Remembrance too! 1806. [Now first published.] LINES ADDRESSED TO THE REV. J. T. BECHER, ON HIS ADVISING THE AUTHOR TO MIX MORE WITH SOCIETY. 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 Etna conceald, Oh! thus, the desire in my bosom for fame Bids me live but to hope for posterity's praise. Could I soar with the phoenix on pinions of flame, With him I would wish to expire in the blaze. (1) The true reason of the haughty distance at which Byron, both at this period and afterwards, stood apart from his more opulent neighbours, is to be found (says Moore) "in his mortifying consciousness of the inadequacy of his own means to his rank, and the proud dread of being made to feel his own inferiority by persons to whom, in every other respect, he knew himself superior." Mr. Becher frequently expostulated with him on this unsociableness; and one of his friendly remonstrances drew forth these lines, so remarkably prefiguring the splendid burst with which Lord Byron's volcanic genius was ere long to open upon the world. E 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 1; 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; To me what is wealth? it may pass in an hour, 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? 1806. THE DEATH OF CALMAR AND ORLA. AN IMITATION OF MACPHERSON'S OSSIAN. (1) 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 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 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 (1) 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. his chiefs to combat. 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. 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. Gray 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 darkhaired 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 |